Riding the Thunder (5 page)

Asha took a glass off the shelf, filled it with ice and Big Red. She set it on a coaster in front of Netta, along with an Almond Joy—Netta's nightly end-of-shift indulgence.

“So, have you finished giving handsome here the third degree?” Netta asked impishly.

Asha's eyes met Jago's, and she was barely able to focus on Netta due to the mesmerizing power the man exuded. “He's a bloody developer,” she said, using her sour words as a shield.

Netta let out a howl. “Could be worse. He could be a used car salesman.”

Jago lifted his beer in a small salute, glancing pointedly to Asha. Netta leaned toward him and bumped shoulders.

“But then, Sexy Lips,” she cooed, “I'd let you park your socks under my Serta Sleeper no matter if you were a telemarketer,
forever calling me at 8:00 a.m. and waking me from my beauty rest.”

“Down, Netta, you'll give him a big head.” Asha chuckled. It was hard to remain straight-faced around the saucy, thirty-something woman with bleached-blond hair and china-blue eyes.

“Shucks, hon, I'd like to make
something
big on him.” Netta winked at Asha.

Asha shook her head with a smile. “Stop propositioning the customers, Netta.” The rebuke was a running joke. Part of her earthy charm, Netta propositioned the customers with great regularity; they'd be disappointed if she didn't. In some ways Asha wished she could take life with the same seek-your-fun-where-you-may attitude. Having faced hitting the big 3-0 just three weeks past, she felt the pinch of her moral standards and the limited opportunities. She loved The Windmill, but being in the middle of nowhere didn't present one with the widest range of dating prospects. Worse, her
high raisings
—as some around here put it, referring to her being a Brit—made the local lads seem a tad mundane. Demolition derbies and tractor-pulls just weren't her cup of tea.

The maniac jukebox began playing “It Hurts To Be In Love” by Gene Pitney. “
How long can I exist wanting lips I've never kissed
?”

Netta looked at Asha, and they both broke out laughing.

After she flipped off the overhead lights inside the diner, Asha locked the restaurant's door, then glanced around the parking lot. It was empty, typical for an area that would roll up the sidewalks at 9:00 p.m.—if they had any. The incandescent light spread the greenish cast to the area, creating long shadows, its quiet hum the only noise in the still October night. Asha followed the walkway around to the facade of the building, turned left, keeping on the flagstones until she reached the motel entrance, the vestibule of the old overseer's house.

Delbert Seacrest leaned on the counter of the front desk, half dozing when Asha came in. The old man reminded her of a pudgy Alec Guinness. She chuckled softly and said to herself, “One of the perks of owning The Windmill. Not everyone has Obi-Wan Kenobi for a night manager.”

“You talking to yourself or me, Asha? If it's me, speak up. I don't hear so well these days.” The elderly man yawned, aware Asha wouldn't say anything to him about catnapping on the job.

It was so slow during the week that often having a night manager seemed silly. However, eighty-seven year old Delbert enjoyed the job, said it kept him from being alone all the time. Having no family, he lived in the large rooms at the back of the old house, and tended to set his own hours. Asha smiled. The Windmill was his family now.

“Something big city developers wouldn't understand,” she muttered lowly, and then passed him the bank bag containing that night's cash from the restaurant. He shuffled off to place it in the safe until Asha could deposit it, a chore she usually did on Monday mornings.

“How was business?”

“Brisk for a Thursday. Keeneland's opening helped. We're catching their travelers taking the scenic route.” She went behind the desk, spun the registry book around and glanced down at the page half-filled with names, dates and the guests' origins.

Jago Fitzgerald had checked in late Monday night. She'd been at the river house Tuesday and Wednesday, and then had gone straight to the horse farm bright and early this morning. That's why they had missed each other until tonight. Delbert had initially put him in room five, then moved him to the bungalow this afternoon when it became available. That made him her neighbor.

Directly behind the restaurant was a small courtyard with five self-catering cottages, arranged in a horseshoe pattern. Each had sliding patio doors so one could enjoy the lovely garden and fountain, and came equipped with a
small kitchenette, living room, and bedroom. Asha maintained one for her part-time residence, a second for her brother, Liam, when he took the mind to stay. The other three they let to travelers, wishing to remain in the area for a longer visit.

So, Jago Fitzgerald was her neighbor. Knowing that unnerved Asha in ways she didn't care to think about. Not sure what she was looking for, she studied the precise script. Most men's handwriting was little better than chicken scratches; his was neat, elegant. He gave his address as London, England. What did she expect to suss from a name she already knew and a vague English address? Restlessly, she tapped her fingernails on the book.

She looked up when the elderly manager ambled back from the office. “Delbert, did Mr. Fitzgerald pay with a credit card?”

“I intended to mention him to you, Asha. He originally requested a bungalow, but they were full up—that honeymoon party for the Gibsons. I put him in five until they checked out. I really hated to lodge such a fancy gent in number five, but that was the only room available.”

Asha frowned and winkled her nose. “The one with the cracked ceiling tiles?”

Delbert nodded, sticking his hands in the pockets of his oversized sweater. “I sort of felt bad, him being quality and all.”

“Yeah . . .” She sighed. “It's on my to-do list, Delbert, which gets longer every day. Not many around here are able to redo ceilings. Colin cannot handle it due to his vertigo, so I'll need to hire someone from Lexington or Leesburg. It'll cost me an arm and a leg. Still, with all this windfall business because of Keeneland, I should be left with some extra cash to toss around for repairs.”

“You know, Asha, my offer stands. I could help out a bit. I have some money saved and it just sits in the bank not doing much.”

“You're a dear heart, but I'm determined to do all this on
my own—prove something to myself, you might say.” She patted his arm and gave it a small squeeze. “How did Fitzgerald pay for the room?”

“The first two nights, cash. I moved him to the bungalow this morning when it became available. He paid for two weeks in advance.”

“Cash again?”

Delbert nodded. “Nice crisp hundred dollar bills. He stays around here for a few weeks, you can fix your ceiling tiles.”

Asha glanced back at the office safe, glowering. “Maybe I should check them. He might be a counterfeiter.”

“Girl, you always had a runaway imagination. Your mother figured you'd be a writer.”

She shrugged. “So far, I can't muster enough discipline or time.”

“Well, don't go writing about counterfeiters when you do. One look at Fitzgerald rules that out. He's money. Wears a Rolex. Tips well, too. He's quality . . . like you. That intimidates
some people
around here, gets their inferiority complexes perking. Besides, I always check big bills. They had that funny little strip thingy in them. They're legit. So is he.” The old man paused as a distant look came into his eyes. “He reminds me of someone . . . a long time ago . . .”

“Don't say ‘in a galaxy far, far away,'” Asha teased, picking up her purse where she'd set it by the register. “He works for Trident Ventures, the bunch trying to buy Valinor. They sent in their gunslinger to put pressure on me. Me is
not
a happy camper.”

Delbert laughed. “Ah, well, they can't buy what you aren't selling, eh? Get a good night's rest. My rheumatism's acting up. I'm going back to my room to prop up my feet and watch Leno, maybe catnap a bit.”

“'Night, Obi-Wan,” Asha said, but he'd already turned and didn't hear her jest. She pushed out the door and continued around the side of the building to the bungalows.

She was halfway down the driveway leading to the small
courtyard when she noticed Jago. Wary, she pulled up. Oh, not that she feared he might harm her. This threat came from a different direction, and was more dangerous.

He sat on the rock wall, the white of his shirt shimmering in the autumn night. His hand lifted to his mouth, and from the small flare of red, she saw that he was smoking.

“Strike two,” she growled so he couldn't hear. “A developer
and
a smoker.”

Asha didn't care for smoking, detested how the scent clung to clothes, hands and hair. While she hadn't been that close to him in the restaurant, she failed to notice tell-tale signs of a long-term smoker. No nicotine-stained fingers, no ‘cloud' around him. Also, he hadn't indulged while in the diner, so he wasn't a chain-smoker. Still. Continuing on, her slow steps carried her nearer. Jago took another draw and she saw it wasn't a cigarette, but a long, thin cigar—cigarillo, she believed it was called.

“Worse than cigarettes.” Her mouth pursed in censure. Cigars often left a foul smell on men who puffed them. Oddly, the cigarillo looked natural to Jago. As the warm breeze swirled around them, she detected a sweet cherry scent.

“Hello, neighbor.” His low voice rumbled with a sorcerer's cant.

Hello, neighbor, my foot!
Warning gongs were going off in her brain. If she was smart, she'd slug him with her purse and make a run for her cottage. Lock herself in.
Then
she might be safe from this virile warlock and his potent magic.

The soft breeze ruffled his wavy black hair and caused his silken shirt to ripple. He'd unbuttoned it halfway down his chest and had no T-shirt underneath. One long leg was stretched out before him; the other was cocked against the low, creek-stone wall for balance.

Jago Fitzgerald was waiting—waiting with that stillness inherent to all of nature's nocturnal hunters. Men of his caliber were few and far between, and quite treacherous to females. They sensed small changes in a woman's body,
reaction to the lethal peril they posed. The pounding of her heart, the rapid, short breaths, and—damn her body—the tightening of her breasts.

Fortunately, her black sweater hid that reaction from this arrogant man in the darkness. Her little secret. A woman needed every advantage in dealing with a male like Jago Fitzgerald, for she had the unshakable sense Netta was right.

He was waiting for her.

Wanting was a dangerous thing. Asha knew this. Everyone wants something: a Lamborghini Murcielago, more money, a closet full of Prada shoes. With many women it's to pig out on chocolate. That didn't mean getting what you wanted was
good
for you.

Asha suddenly wanted Jago Fitzgerald with a soul-deep craving that was alarming. Terrifying. Wanted him enough to reach out and take whatever he offered, asking for nothing but tonight. She could see the whole scene play out in her mind. His mouth taking hers, savagely. Her clinging to him with a passion the like of which she'd never known.

She wondered if he would make love with that same controlled force now emanating from him, or would he snap and let loose demons because he too wanted? Both scenarios rattled Asha. Both images were frighteningly vivid, crackling with the power of clairvoyance. Worse, she figured he was likely aware of her hesitation. Aware of why.

As badly as she desired him, she reminded herself this man was passing through. Oh, he'd enjoy a hot fling to wile away his stay in Hicksville, Kentucky. If so, he should target
Netta, not her. Asha didn't play with customers—
Rule Number One
. She wasn't part of the package at The Windmill.

“How long are we to be neighbors, Mr. Fitzgerald?” she asked softly.

He smiled. Not a fool, Asha didn't trust that smile. It was the same smile the Wolf wore when Little Red Riding Hood exclaimed,
My, what big teeth you have
! Women were born knowing
not
to trust a sexy smile like that.

“I want to gain a feel for the area. Ramble a bit. I plan to use The Windmill as my base—if that's all right. Why I wanted the bungalow instead of a room—I like to spread out . . . have room to work.” He lifted the cigarillo to his lips, took a draw and then exhaled a narrow stream of smoke into the air. The cherry-scented smoke swirled around her with a wizard's magic.

“I should be fool enough to help the enemy by providing a roof over your head?” Tired after being on her feet most of the day, Asha considered joining him on the rock wall, but deemed that would be
too
close.

“I'm not your enemy, Asha.” His white teeth flashed in the night. “And I
am
a paying customer.”

“True, you are a customer. Whether you prove to be the enemy or not, I shall reserve judgment.” The autumn night seemed to enfold around them, to cocoon them in an intimacy that left her breathless. It was the sheer force of this man. His radiant heat reached out and nearly overwhelmed her fragile sense of self-preservation. She needed to get away from him,
fast,
before it was too late. “Goodnight, Mr. Fitzgerald.”

“'Night, Asha Montgomerie.
Pleasant dreams
,” he wished in a low sexy voice that promised they'd be about him.

Asha started to walk away, but those soft words made her turn around. Jago still sat, smoking. The sensual hint of cherry trailed after her, taunting her for being a coward. Yes, she was a coward. She ran when she wanted to step between those strong thighs, press her body against his
chest, and see if that cherry smoke tasted as tantalizing as it smelled.