Riding the Thunder (37 page)

“Yes, I do know. I think you understand what I'm doing there. Only you aren't Trident Ventures,” she qualified. “They want the horse farm, and they've made it clear by pressuring my father that they wanted The Windmill, too. I know how big business works. What they want, they get, by fair means or foul.”

He picked up her hand and toyed with her engagement ring. “Don't fret about Trident. They shall leave you alone.”

“You have that much pull with them, Jago?”

He'd meant to reassure her. For some reason it had the opposite effect. She shifted on the bed so she could face him, wanting to watch his countenance. He crossed his arms over his chest—a defensive position, whether he was aware of the action or not.

“I will . . . in a few weeks,” he answered. No further details were forthcoming.

She wasn't content with that reply; it felt an evasion. “Was this part of what took you away?”

“Part.”

The one word answer set her teeth on edge.

Grrrrrrrrr. More evasions! The man was beginning to tick her off. She wasn't Miz Nosybucket, hadn't pressed him on matters about his month away, assuming he'd tell her when he was ready. Men had a tendency to talk in their own time. Prod them for facts or explanations and they clammed up on you. She had six brothers to attest the only way to handle a man was to out-wait him. Even so, she didn't like how he was closing himself off from her by tossing out these half-hearted, vague responses. She'd noticed Jago's sentences grew shorter as she pressed, and wondered if he was aware how telling such actions where. He was used to dealing with the high-powered world of big business, the hired gun for Trident Ventures, which meant he was used to
guising his reactions. Perhaps he couldn't use those tricks with her. She smiled.

“What part?” she pushed.

He reached for his jeans and tugged them on, evidently sussing she'd zeroed in on the chink in his armor. Going to the window, he looked out at the snow flying. His stance demonstrated he was marshaling his defenses. Also, he appeared to be working up to the one thing men seemed to have the hardest time facing—actually opening up and communicating.

Getting out of bed, Asha went over and wrapped her arms around his waist from behind. In the pre-dawn light the whole river valley was pure white, with only the dark ribbon of the river winding below. It was stunning, but she'd rather look at Jago. She hugged him tightly, loving him with all her heart.

“Jago . . . I love you.”

She'd waited for him to tell her that first. Yeah, she knew he loved her, but women were silly, sentimental beings who craved to hear those three little words. She was no different. It doesn't matter a man showed in a hundred ways how much he cared; women were whiny brats and
had
to hear those words. Well, she was tired of waiting.

His breathing stilled; his strong back muscles tensed. He didn't move, and she suddenly worried if she had made a mistake. But he'd asked her to marry him. A dozen times a day he demonstrated his love. Why should hearing those simple words cause such a strong reaction, almost a denial? It scared her, and being a female who needed reassurance, she panicked.

His head dropped forward as if he experienced a crushing sadness. Unsettled by what was going on within him, she tried to laugh, to make a joke out of the situation, though tears rose, threatening to clog her throat. “Hey, I'm a silly female. Just ignore me. I merely assumed that when you gave me an engagement ring you loved me. But hey, no worries. Clint and I will adjust—”

He swung around, catching her off guard. One hand clamped hard around the back of her neck, the other her waist. Yanking her to him, he took her mouth savagely with his, kissing her with a passion that seemed fueled by desperation as much as desire. “Damn it, woman, I love you. You have no idea how much I love you. I don't know what I would do if you left me. I think I would die inside.”

He pushed her back against the wall; his trembling hand came up, his fingers stroking her cheek as though he were a sculptor memorizing the contours of her face, as if he stared at the most precious thing in his world. The power of his emotions washed through her, humbled her, shamed her for her childish reaction, for her craving to hear the simple words when he gave her so much more. Words didn't begin to measure up to the strength of his need for her reflected in his dark green eyes.

“You have no idea how you complete me, make my life right, see me happy. You lack all concept of what my life was like growing up. How empty I have been all these years . . . waiting for you to come with your healing love.” He leaned his forehead against her, as if seeking to keep the sexual tension from taking over and spiraling out of control.

“You haven't spoken of your past to me, outside of mentioning your brothers and your mother and father. I figure you'd tell me those things when you are ready. You and I are what's important, the life we are building here, now, the future. We will have a lot of wintry nights ahead or slow summer evenings when we can talk about memories, what made us who we are. The past is not important at this stage, Jago. Sometimes people let the past rule them too much.”

“The past
is
important . . . to some. Obligations, duties, loyalty, love—all are in the mix. And yes, some allow it to rule their lives. It's frightening how the sins of the fathers are visited upon the children and even grandchildren, swept up by past events that happened without our playing
any role. Yet, we are unable to break free before it's too late.”

“It's never too late. You simply have to remember what's most important and fight for what you want.”

“I hope you mean that. I hope—”

The phone rang, breaking the moment. She smiled. “Told you. Every time we talk, someone visits, calls or we get horny.”

“Horny is more fun. I do love you, Asha.” The back of his hand stroked her cheek. “Never doubt that.”

“Never doubt my love either.”

“I don't. I doubt myself.
That
is what I doubt.” Jago growled as the phone kept ringing, saying the person on the other end clearly wasn't going to leave them in peace.

“It's a new year. The rest of the world is back to work.

They don't know we're snowbound and enjoying it.”

“I don't care who the devil it is, I'm telling them to go to blue blazes.” He crossed the room to the phone and jerked it up. “Hello. Oh, Des. Sorry, I've been concerned, too. A lot of things happening here, as I am sure it is there.”

Of course, Jago didn't tell his older brother to get stuffed. Asha could tell by how drawn his face became that he was worried about Desmond. His speaking in hushed tones reinforced that impression. Giving him space, she prodded Clint's belly. “Feed the kitty?” she enticed.

The silly cat nearly twisted himself into a pretzel, flopping around like a fish out of water, trying to get to his feet. In the kitchen, Asha opened a small can of Fancy Feast for the yodeling pussycat. With him happily feeding his face, she set about to make a tea tray so Jago and she could sit by the fire, watch it snow and enjoy a lazy morning. Maybe she would unplug the phone and stuff Jago's cell phone in the laundry hamper to ensure their peace.

As she filled the kettle, her eyes took in the rising sun, its rosy light turning the wintry landscape to pinks and purples.
So beautiful, the scenery was perfect for a postcard or photograph.

A movement at a distance attracted her eyes. She couldn't focus upon whatever was up there. Squinting to see, she nearly overfilled the teakettle. Turning off the tap, she set the pot on the electric burner and turned it on. Coming back to the sink, she looked again at the far hill. The hillside was thick with pines and shrouded with heavy snow, the long shadows of dawn cast distorting shapes. Nothing. Just the falling snow. She wasn't sure what she expected to spot.

“Must be my imagination, Clint. I don't see anything. Maybe it was a deer. Even a wildcat. There still are a few long The Palisades. He'd make you look small in comparison, which with your girth isn't an easy thing to do. No one would be out tromping around in this snowstorm, so it was some forest creature.” She frowned. “I don't think we have bears anymore. I hope not.”

Sipping her tea, Asha went to check the stack of mail on the entry table. Typical bills and junk mail, she quickly sorted through what was important and then dumped the spam into the trashcan. When she looked back at the small tabletop she frowned. The large brown envelope with the signed proxies for Cian was missing. She'd placed it there a couple days ago thinking to mail it the next time they went out.

“Oh bother. I guess I scooped it up with the junk mail, Clint. Cian will kill me.” She squatted and pulled out the stack of magazines, flyers and advertisements. The cat padded over and ‘helped' her inspect everything. There were two brown envelopes—one from Publishers Central Bureau telling her she'd likely won ten million dollars. Scratching Clint's head, she laughed. “Joy and celebration . . . The Windmill's petty cash will be happy.”

Pursing her mouth, she frowned when she failed to find the errant item. Fearful it might've slipped inside a magazines or the mailers, she carefully went through them, fluttering
pages of the catalogues or unfolding the newspaperstyle Bargain Mart. Nothing.

“Well bugger,” she grumped.

“What are you two doing rummaging through the garbage?” Jago had come into the kitchen barefooted, so she hadn't heard him until he spoke.

Asha jumped from fright. “Jeez Louise. You scared me out of a year of my life, sneaking up on me like that.”

He leaned down and kissed the top of her head. “Sorry, I wasn't sneaking. You and Clint were too absorbed in playing with the trash.”

With a disgusted sigh of not having found the envelope, she dumped the mess back into the rubbish. Asha glared at the table and then around the room, considering if she'd set it somewhere else and merely thought she'd put it there. “I was searching for the envelope for Cian. Have you seen it? I was sure it was on the entry table.”

He reached down and lifted her by her waist, slowly pulling her up his body. His braced stance was one of pure male dominance, a man wanting his mate. It humbled her. It
empowered
her. When she was finally standing, his mouth took hers for a long, slow, deep kiss that set her scalp to tingling and her body to ache in a pagan throb. Her breast grew so sensitive, craving his touch. The crowning need made it hard for her even to think.

When he broke the kiss, she nearly panted out, “The envelope? Did you see it?”

The corners of his mouth curved upward into a satyric smile. “Sounds like I didn't kiss you good enough, lass.”

“Kiss me all you want—after I find that damn envelope. It's important.”

His eyes glowed hungrily as he parted her silk robe to expose her breasts. Gently, he cupped them, brushing his thumbs back and forth across the stiffening peaks. Lust set free, her body burned, the core of her desire instantly tightening into a hard knot. His sensual touch was delicious, but not nearly enough. Then his clever hands moved down her
waist, over the curves of her derrière, and then in a quick surprise, jerked her up and plopped her on the rickety entry table.

Jago's laughter rumbled in his chest. “Let's see if this poor table was meant for hot sex.”

His fingers slid up her thighs until both hands met and he could gently massage the outside of her slick fold. He leaned close, nibbling his way up to her ear. Pausing he whispered. “The envelope? I mailed it when we went to the store for supplies.”

“What . . . envelope?” she gasped, pushing the sweat pants off his firm buttocks.

He shoved into her body with one solid thrust. “Yeah, what envelope.”

The Windmill's Halloween and Thanksgiving bashes had been such huge successes, she decided to toss a St. Valentine's Day party at the clubhouse. It seemed the perfect occasion to break the bleak winter blues. It would be so beautiful, romantically decorated and geared to celebrate love. She thought it a shame Bobby Pickett didn't do love songs. She asked Colin to find out about Ray Peterson, to see if he was still around singing “Tell Laura I Love Her.” Somehow it seemed fitting. Colin's eyes were so miserable when he told her the world had lost Peterson a couple of years before. She found it sad the man had never known how much his song had meant to Tommy Grant and Laura Valmont.

Asha had decreed that everyone was to come dressed in red, pink, black or white or they weren't getting through the door. To her delight, The Oriental Trading Company had super decorations for the restaurant and the glasshouse: wonderful spinner hearts, beautiful rosebuds under glass for the buffet tables, red heart garlands with the hearts trimmed in white lace, and a gorgeous arched banner
that would serve for the entrance. She even considered putting a tent over the pool itself and buying little boats to float, creating a ‘tunnel of love'just like they used to have in the old Coney Island decades ago. Colin muttered something about insurance and how a woman in love shouldn't be in charge of Valentine decorations, then flatly refused to help conjure her vision into reality. Jago, the traitor, backed him up, saying it would block the view within the pool house. Men! Such spoil sports. Despite their lack of enthusiasm, she was delighted with the way the whole concept for the party was taking shape. She had all the planters repotted with white and red miniature roses. With two weeks to go, they were starting to bloom and would be gorgeous.

Of course, she planned a private party afterward with Jago. A little red silk number from Victoria's Secret and the delivery of the hot tub for the river house were just the prescription to gift Jago with the news he was going to be a daddy. Her cute little test had showed a plus; she'd followed up with a doctor's appointment to confirm it. Thus far, no morning sickness. Placing a hand to her belly, she hoped that would hold at least until she broke the news to the papa-to-be.