Riding the Thunder (7 page)

“You know small towns—everyone's always talking about the good old days,” she lied, at a loss to explain the vivid montage in her head.

“How about a trade? I'll feed you breakfast, and you show me the best places to shop. A nice way to pass a rainy morning, eh?”

Asha hated to admit it, but she liked Jago. He was sex and sin, with a dash of humor and a jigger of mystery. She couldn't recall the last time a man so intrigued her, lured her, despite her mind screaming to keep as far away from him as possible. She'd always had problems of zigging when she should be zagging, but what the hell? What was the worst that could happen—he'd be a total bastard like Justin St. Cloud, her ex-fiancé? She glanced over at the black-haired man who waited for her answer. Jago Fitzgerald was many things, all hazardous to her heart, but she sensed a deep streak of honor running through him. She realized now she had never sensed that in Justin.

“Deal, but I need to stop at the bank. The Windmill is low on change and I want to make a deposit while I'm there.”

Jago frowned slightly. “I hadn't considered it, but you have to drive quite a distance to make large cash deposits.”

“Not much cash these days. Everyone uses debit or
credit cards; still, sometimes I have a large deposit when Keeneland Racetrack is open—as it is now. Take a left up here and we can go down to the river and eat at The Cliffside. They have a marvelous breakfast.”

“Avoiding my questions again.”

She laughed. “You didn't ask a question that time.”

“Love, you alone are reason enough for some yahoo to come at you one night after closing, but add in a bank deposit—”

“Don't get your macho up. No one would dare bother me.”

Jago made the turn and headed down the winding road toward the Kentucky River. The countryside was gloriously colored in brilliant oranges, yellows and reds—autumn at its peak. The gray mist of the light rain only amplified the dazzling beauty, each turn in the road showing another painter's delight. Jago didn't seem to notice. His eyes were on her as much as the road.

“This time I'll ask a question. Why would you assume no one would bother you?”

She shrugged. “Because I carry.”

“A gun?” Surprise registered in his dark eyes.

She nodded. “I have a permit, and I'm a crack shot.”

“So, what do you tote, Pistol-packin' Mama?” He chuckled, as if still not believing her claim.

“A Colt Python Elite, four inch barrel, blue carbon finish.”

“Geez, Louise—that's a .357 Magnum, ‘the Rolls Royce of handguns.' Ever had to use it, Annie Oakley?”

“Nope. Gossip spreads around this neck of the woods like wildfire. I'm a crazy foreigner with a Magnum. They leave me alone.”

Shaking his head, Jago smiled. A smile that was both a warning and a promise. “Well, Asha Montgomerie, don't count on that cap pistol keeping you safe from me.”

Staring at Jago Fitzgerald,
safe
wasn't a word that came to Asha's mind.

 

“Wow,” Jago exclaimed in surprise as they pushed through the double doors of The Cliffside Restaurant. He put a hand to the small of Asha's spine, rubbing lightly as he paused to take in the long café. “It's like stepping back in time.”

“The Cliffside was built in the 1930s when tourist trade and river traffic kept this place hopping. Barges ferried coal and other stuff up and down the river. There used to be several marinas for pleasure boats,” Asha informed him.

Noticing the Wurlitzer to one side he said, “Hey, they have a jukebox like yours.”

The comment caused Asha to chuckle. “No, not like The Windmill. No one has a Wurlitzer quite like ours.”

The waitress behind the counter looked up from reading a newspaper. “Well, lookie who's come to slum. Morning, Asha. What can I do you for?” Taking a couple glasses from the rack, she filled them with ice and water and put them on a tray. The buxom redhead—with a hairdo that made her resemble a Bubble Cut Barbie come to life—looked Jago up and down. “And what can I do
you
for, handsome?”

“Don't make me get out my cattle prod, Ella,” Asha kidded.

Ella Garner patted her over-teased hair and shrugged with a disappointed sigh. “I don't blame you. I'd slap a brand on his cute little tush, too. Where would you like to park that sexy rear?”

“Since Jago is new to the area—,” Asha started only to be interrupted.

“
Jay-go
? Oh, be still my beating heart. I ain't never seen a Jago on the hoof before.”

“—I thought we might eat on the porch, Ella,” Asha finished. “Let him have a gander at that breathtaking view of the river.”

“Sure thing, honey.” Snatching up a couple menus, Ella led them to the side dining room, which had three walls of windows. She waited until they were seated before placing the water and menus in front of them. “Only, I think you
need your eyes checked, Asha Montgomerie. What leaves one breathless is sitting across from you, silly woman.”

Jago's eyes skimmed the menu, and then he looked to Asha. “Any suggestions?”

“Country ham, eggs as you like them, Ernie's buttermilk biscuits and hash browns.” Asha folded the menu and passed it back. “For us both. My eggs sunny-side up, please, and a tall glass of grapefruit juice.”

“Same on the eggs and juice,” Jago agreed, passing his menu to Ella. “And coffee, black.”

“You want grits?” Ella asked, tapping the order book with her pencil, waiting for his answer.

Jago blinked. “Grits?”

Being perverse, Asha suppressed a giggle and said, “He'll have the grits.”

“I will?” Jago looked puzzled.

“Oh, you
have
to eat grits,” Asha insisted.

“Okey-dokey . . . coming right up.” Ella swiveled on her white waitress shoes and sashayed away.

Jago turned partway to watch the show Ella provided. Just a little ticked, Asha sighed and pursed her lips.

“‘Like Jell-O on springs,'” he quoted Jack Lemmon's line from
Some Like It Hot
.

Asha took a sip of her water, put the glass back on its coaster and then slowly pushed it around on the table for distraction. Rolling her eyes, she muttered ominously, “Strike three.”

Jago gave her an easy grin and unfolded his cloth napkin from around his silverware. “Strike three? Sounds like I'm in trouble. What were my first two transgressions—just so I know why my head is on the chopping block?”

“Being a developer and a smoker.” Asha unrolled her napkin and arranged her knife, fork and spoon, trying to ignore his incisive stare.

“I only smoke on the rare occasion, and being a developer is a job, not who I am. There are good developers and bad developers, don't you think?” He stretched out his legs
and deliberately trapped hers between them. His dancing green eyes were playful.

Ella returned with the glasses of juice, Jago's coffee and a basket of warm blueberry muffins. “Compliments of the house, sugar,” she informed with a Cheshire Cat smile.

Asha took a sip of the tart juice. “Ella, you never gave
me
complimentary muffins.”

The waitress howled with laughter. “Honey, what do they teach you children over there in England?”

Asha took a hot muffin and broke it open. “Actually, I went to school in the States more than I did in Britain.”

“What? Some Catholic girls' school?” Ella snorted. “You poor thing.”

When Jago's stare once more followed the redhead moving away, Asha almost tossed her muffin at him. “I'd waste a perfectly good blueberry muffin.”

“You're muttering to yourself and glowering at me. Should I move the knife out of your reach?” he teased.

“Might be a good idea at that, but I'll need it to butter my toast.” She flashed him a wide, fake grin.

“I think you're jealous, Asha Montgomerie,” he accused, clearly liking the idea.

“I think you are arrogant and irritating. Remind me never to have breakfast with you again.” Asha knew she was overreacting, and she really wasn't jealous. Not of Ella. One simply did not get jealous over a vintage Barbie doll come to life. Still, the whole situation touched a raw nerve she didn't know she had.

Men looked. Men
always
looked. Tall, short, fat, thin—it didn't matter how the woman appeared or even if she were pretty—men looked. Only, following her dealings with that jerk Justin St. Cloud, the fact suddenly irritated her when it shouldn't. Her problem. Nevertheless, the past left her leery of pretty men. Women tended to go after them rather voraciously. Once she had dumped Justin, she'd made a vow never to set herself up for that heartache again.

“Men look. It—” Jago began.

Asha knew too well what he was going to say. “Doesn't mean a thing. Yeah, I've heard that before.” Justin had said the same—
frequently
. Naively, she had believed him. Stupid her. She wasn't about to make the same mistake. “Word-for-word.”

“She's a character—like Netta. Colorful, amusing. I don't take either of their flirting seriously.”

“No one's like Netta. She has heart,” she defended.

“She's flirted a lot more than Ella has, yet you didn't take umbrage with her. You just joined in the laughter.” He polished off one muffin and reached for another. “Mind telling me the difference?”

Asha hadn't been piqued with Netta's come-ons to Jago, instinctively knowing her friend would respect imaginary boundaries, but she wasn't going to tell
him
that. As long as Asha had any interest in Jago, Netta might play at flirting, but it was merely teasing and nothing more; Netta flirted as she breathed. Ella was not so respectful of unspoken female territories. She bet anything that Ella would slip Jago her phone number along with the change from the bill.

Evasive, she allowed her eyes to sweep the panoramic view of The Palisades and the winding, muddy river below. The view was majestic; still, her attention was divided. Though she didn't like it, her gaze was unwillingly drawn back to the dynamic man seated opposite her in the red vinyl booth. She was saved from having to reply to his question as Ella returned with the plates full of food.

Jago suspiciously poked a spoon into the grits and eyed Asha. She stared blankly at him, then in challenge, daring him to try them, so he finally took a spoonful and put it in his mouth. He half-choked, his eyes flashing daggers, but finally forced his throat to work. Desperate, he reached for something to gulp down the mush, and she impishly pushed his coffee saucer closer.

Grabbing the cup, he took a big swallow, strangled out, “Hot,” and then snatched up her grapefruit juice. Once he
was done with his Trial by Ordeal, he frowned, though his eyes twinkled with humor. “You're a wicked woman, Asha Montgomerie. Remind me never to royally piss you off. Grits? They're sand!”

“You're supposed to put salt and pepper and a pat of butter on them,” she said, trying to appear innocent.

He shook his head and pushed them away. “No thanks. Then it would taste like salt, pepper and buttered sand. You are
mean
, Asha. Making me eat sand is something my brother Trev would do.”

“Trev?” she asked.

He nodded. “My twin brother, Trevelyn, and we have an older brother, Des.”

“We are both twins! I have a twin sister, Raven.” Asha was delighted with the bond of commonality. “It's not easy being a twin, is it?”

Over the breakfast he talked about having a sibling so alike, of how he understood the struggle of being outwardly like another yet so different inside, feeling the need to assert your own individuality. Her earlier peeve forgotten, Asha enjoyed learning about him. Jago was easy to talk to, flirt with. He enjoyed horseback riding—though seldom had the opportunity—loved music, old movies and sleeping in on rainy days. He took pleasure in swimming laps nearly every day, and dancing when the opportunity presented itself. The meal passed too quickly.

“I have several sisters besides my twin. My sisters Britt and BarbaraAnne—B.A., we call her—are twins, and we have twin brothers, too. We joke that twins not only run in the family, they gallop. I come from a big family, very clannish. Do you come from a large family?”

Jago pushed his plate back, sipping the last of his coffee. “Just my brothers and my mother. She's under nursing care in Ireland.”

“I thought I detected the hint in your accent. You lived there?

“The accent comes from her, I should imagine. She's
Irish. We lived there when I was little, but I was too small to recall anything.”

“Your father's not alive?” She watched his face cloud at her question.

Obviously, it was his turn to experience a raw nerve. He stiffened, taking a beat to rein in strong emotions, before saying in a flat tone, “My father died. I really don't recall him, though Des talks about him a lot. He's older . . . memories are more vivid for my brother.”

Seeing the sparkle dim in those mesmerizing eyes, Asha reached out, and without thinking covered his hand with hers. She almost yanked it back, assuming it perhaps a little presumptuous. Instead of rebuffing her sympathy, Jago's hand quickly reversed positions, gave hers a small squeeze of thanks. Lacing fingers, they sat for some time, just holding hands, not speaking

As Asha stared into the deep green eyes, she could barely breathe, stunned by the rare moment of wordless understanding that shook the very walls of her safe little world.

Never had she felt so close to another person, not even her twin.

Later that night, Asha was still trying to erect defenses against the profound connection she'd felt with Jago.

“I knew there was a reason I didn't like him,” she muttered under her breath as she frowned in his direction. Ringing up a dinner ticket on the register, she was careful not to slam the drawer just to vent her peevish mood.