Riding the Thunder - Deborah MacGillivray [126]
He chuckled. “Isn’t it nice that we men are such paragons of patience? Why don’t you close up early? You’ve been knocking yourself out decorating for the party.”
“Sounds nice. An early evening would be good.” Going to the office, she leaned in to speak to Netta, making out orders for next week’s food. “Hey, best hostess in the world, would you close up for me? I’m beat.”
Netta unwrapped an Almond Joy. “Sure thing, sugarplum. Have Sexy Lips give you some TLC. Get some sleep for a change. You look tired.”
“Thanks.” She wished everyone goodnight, then let Jago lead her out into the February evening.
Clint came padding up, rubbing against Jago’s leg. “What’s he doing out?”
“Don’t ask me. He was in the bungalow sleeping when I came to work. Maybe Mary let him out when she was cleaning.” Asha hugged her shawl about her shoulders, while Jago fished out the keys from his pocket. “Tomorrow is February second—St. Brid’s Day. By the old pagan calender, that was the first day of spring.”
A cool breeze swirled around them, carrying flakes of snow with it, causing Jago to laugh as he inserted the key. “Anyone defining the first day of February as spring hasn’t lived in Kentucky.” He paused, caught in the breathless instant, his hand reaching up to cup her face. His thumb wiped away a stray snowflake that hit her cheek. He tilted forward and brushed a butterfly kiss softly to her lips. She started to lean into him, but instead of deepening it he stepped back.
“We need to talk.” They both smiled and chuckled, sharing the same thought. “Yeah, I know we keep saying that, then twelve dozen things pop up to interrupt. No more. We have to talk, Asha. It’s important.”
“I apologized about how I reacted over the horse farm deal—” she started.
“It’s not that. This is about us . . . though family is mixed in there. Yours. Mine. We need to turn off the—” The phone began ringing in his cabin. “Grrr. You and Clint get out of the cold. I don’t want either of you sick. I’ll be a few minutes. I have a call in to Trident to confirm the deal is settled. I might need to justify what I did. After that, all phones are off the hook so we can talk. Deal?”
She nodded, watching him dash to his bungalow. Letting Clint in first, she flipped on the lights. The cottage was chilled, so she crossed to the small fireplace and lit a match to the already laid kindling. The newspaper caught instantly, and soon the heady scent of applewood filled the air. Heading to the kitchen to feed the cat, she noticed a piece of paper taped to the refrigerator.
“If Jago’s sticking a grocery list up on my steel fridge, his arse is mine, Clint.” She dumped dry food into the bowl, then walked over to yank it down.
It wasn’t a grocery list, but a typed letter on expensive vellum with the Trident Venture letterhead—had a cute little pitchfork-shaped logo. Her eyes skimmed over it, trying to take in details of what the long letter actually meant. The details didn’t matter. There was only one important factor—why the letter had been left for her.
The letter was addressed to Jago Mershan.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Having trouble breathing, Asha gulped air to fight the rising nausea. She rushed to Jago’s bungalow to confront him, but spotted him heading toward the front of the diner. Clint spied him, too, and was instantly on his heels. Jago was whistling to flag down Liam, as he was reversing the red Viper out of the parking lot. Finally her brother noticed Jago, flicked his lights and waited for him to jog up. She assumed the urgent parlay had something to do with the telephone call Jago had just taken from Trident.
So angry, she nearly marched over and showed them both the letter—let Jago deal with Liam as well as her. Instead, she noticed Jago had left his cabin door half-open in his dash to run down Liam. She headed there.
Inside, she looked around. His cell phone was on the table beside the open briefcase. It was only a few steps