Riding the Thunder - Deborah MacGillivray [129]
Jago saw her on the floor, panicked and rushed to her. He tried to get her to sit up, but damn it, she didn’t want to sit. The cat was hopping all over the place, though she wasn’t sure if he was playing a game or trying to defend her. She didn’t care. Rather, she wished both of them would leave her alone with her misery.
“Go away and let me die,” she moaned.
Terrified, Jago pushed her hair back from her face. “Have you taken something, Asha?”
“I’d belt you for asking that, but I’m too tired. It’s a sour stomach. Finding the man you love has been lying to you for months will do that.”
“Are you going to puke more?” he asked softly.
She wanted to curl up into a ball and ignore him and the cat. “I just want to sleep . . . as soon as I rinse my mouth.”
With his aid, she stood and hobbled to the sink. She washed her mouth out with water and then did a quick swish with Listermint. Tenderly, Jago helped her undress and into a comfortable nightgown; sliding under the cool sheets felt like paradise. He rushed about, doing chores for several minutes, though she closed her eyelids and ignored him. Or pretended to.
“Here, drink this.”
She opened her eyes and looked up at him. He’d changed out of his clothes and just wore sweatpants. Holding out a cup, he offered a concerned smile.
“What’s this?”
“Warm lemonade and honey. It cuts the aftertaste and soothes the throat.”
She took the drink and sipped, surprised by how good it was. “Thank you.”
“I didn’t mean to make you sick.”
Asha concentrated on the warm drink and tried not to take notice of his kindness. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Fine. Then you will listen to me talk. Like how dirt poor I grew up.”
That caught her off guard. “Poor?”
“Yes. So poor I doubt you could comprehend it. When I was little more than a baby my father put a gun to his head and killed himself.”
The cup rattled against the saucer. She saw in his eyes that he was serious. “How horrible.”
“I was too young to remember, only that incident formed my whole life—maybe nearly destroyed it, and that of my brothers.” Jago sat on the edge of the bed and took the saucer from her hands. “I don’t want you to say anything, but I want to tell you about his death. It happened a long time ago; however it’s still driving the Mershan brothers. You think I don’t have the right to ask you to hear me out after lying to you, but in a strange way I do have that right and I am claiming it. You see, the reason my father committed suicide was because he was ruined by your grandfather.”
“My grandfather?”
He gave a small nod. “So, do we talk?”
She pressed her lips together to keep from crying; this time it was hormonal. She looked at him. “We talk.”
And they did. Jago turned out the lights and slid into the bed and cradled her—and talked. For hours. He cried when he told how his mother had died in November, how she’d been sick most of her life and had never received the proper medical care until it was too late. How she didn’t have an education to support herself and three small sons. How she’d returned to her family’s farm in Ireland after Michael Mershan’s death. The details of the too-risky deal.
“Sean used lands he didn’t own as collateral to back chancy ventures. Emerald mines in South America, oil in the Middle East. When one venture paid off, that windfall backed another, each bonanza bankrolling the next—an empire built with a house of cards. Everything turned to gold for Midas Montgomerie. He pulled my father into his schemes, used him to lure others into them. Only, Midas Montgomerie’s luck turned. Rebels took over the mines; Arabs seized oil wells; and coalmines in Wales were closed due to bad working conditions. Dozens of investments went sour.”
A wave of nausea hit Asha, leaving her certain she didn’t want to hear this.
“My father, poor fool, made a lot of money through Sean’s early investments. Sean convinced him to entice his friends and associates