Riding the Thunder - Deborah MacGillivray [18]
Jago had been outside in the parking lot before he finally got a good look at her face. Quite vividly, he recalled standing by the car, watching Raven and Asha coming down the steps of the ancient kirk. They were twins, and yet, Asha had seemed unique somehow. Maybe being a twin himself had endowed him with a perception attuned to recognizing finite differences others missed.
As he hadn’t been surprised when Desmond booked a flight to Scotland, Jago had fathomed in that breathless instant that he would be the one to come here to Kentucky.
“Destiny, the bitch, sure plays cruel tricks with people’s lives.” He laughed softly, mockingly.
Jago took one last draw on the Swisher Sweet, the taste going flat. He dropped it and ground the butt beneath his boot. Instantly, the disquietude was back.
The light in the living room of Asha’s bungalow winked out, increasing the penned animal mood within him. Like a big cat in a zoo, Jago wanted to break free of this invisible cage that caused his edginess. No, that light going off didn’t help the situation one bit. Was Asha in bed? Did she sleep nude? Were the sheets soft flannel, crisp linen or sleek silk? What material rubbed against those full breasts? Images filled his mind of them locked together in full-tilt, ride-’em-cowboy sort of sex. How would she taste? Would she want—as the Pointer Sisters crooned—“a lover with a slow hand,” or would she give measure-for-measure, as sudden and wild as a spring thunderstorm?
A fresh vision flashed in his mind: him holding her body spooned against his, lazily listening to the rain on the roof as they drowsed. It was a vivid picture devoid of his gnawing restlessness, and for a moment, an intangible sense flowed through him, spreading in gentle waves of tantalizing warmth. The sensation shifted through his veins, then lodged in his chest, both unnerving and welcome in the same breath.
Then the old hunger returned, tenfold, nearly overwhelming him. That damn wanting and yet not knowing what his soul cried for.
Giving up, Jago stalked disgustedly toward his bungalow. He wondered how many times this night he would get up, go to the refrigerator, stare for a few minutes and then slam the door—coming away with nothing.
“For a change there’s a good excuse for that bit of nonsense—I don’t have any food in it yet.” His mood brightened. “I’ll just have to get Asha to show me where to shop tomorrow.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Asha came out of the motel office and pulled up short. The black Jeep Cherokee sat, engine running, at the end of the walkway. “Bloody warlock read my mind?”
Jago leaned over the passenger seat and opened the door from the inside. “Hop in, Asha, you’re getting wet.” He flashed that killer, mega-watt smile. Asha wanted to slap the smug expression off his handsome face.
Exhaling, she unslung her purse from her shoulder, slid into the Jeep and closed the door. There was no scent of cherry smoke, just clean male and the light hint of citrus, bergamot and wood found in Armani’s Pour Homme. Last year, while searching for the perfect Christmas presents for her brothers, Asha had fallen for the scent, even bought it for cousin Edward. She adored it, and had almost purchased a bottle for herself, just to keep and smell. She’d eventually nixed that idea, thinking the fragrance required the body heat of a man to make it complete. Having no male around, it would only serve to torment her. That Jago wore that cologne—or one similar—flustered her.
“Good morning, Asha. Have you breakfasted yet?” He shifted the Jeep into gear, pulled down the motel drive and turned onto the narrow outbound road, wipers swooshing in a soothing rhythm.
“Actually, I’m not much of a morning person, so I don’t usually have breakfast.” As she fastened the seat belt, her eyes took in the details of the sexy man.
Jago wore a black turtleneck sweater, black jeans and a camel-colored, suede bomber jacket.