Riding the Thunder - Deborah MacGillivray [19]
“Ever notice you have a habit of evading direct replies?” Jago coasted the sedan to the end of the short lane and waited to pull onto the highway. “Which way? Or are you going to ply me with another evasive answer?”
She fought a smile. “Left. To Leesburg.”
“Can we shop for groceries in Leesburg? While I look forward to meals at The Windmill, I’d like to have basic staples for my off hours. Sandwich stuff. Some utterly fattening Krispy Kreme donuts. Never know when a wicked hunger can strike a man in the middle of the night.”
She saw the long black lashes on those intense green eyes bat once, then he glanced to gauge the reaction to his thinly disguised double-entendre. Think, silly woman, the man is expecting a reply. Something witty, droll, preferably! Her problem: she was of two minds. Miz Goodie Two-Shoes sat, her knees clamped together, trying to ignore how her womb had contracted into a hard knot from the impact of this man on her senses. Yet, deep inside was a wild woman yearning to be set free to indulge in all the wild fantasies slipping into her mind whenever she looked at him, at those beautiful hands she wanted on her body. A small voice whispered that this man was the one to grant all those wishes.
Taking the easy way, the coward’s way, she said, “Leesburg has a decent-size grocery. In the mid ’60s the town had a Kroger and a Gateway—back when gas was little more than a quarter a gallon.”
He arched an eyebrow. “You weren’t alive back then.”
His comment gave her pause. How did she know these things? She could clearly summon the two stores to mind, could see the Texaco station with the sign showing gasoline at 22¢ per gallon. Memories of lazy summer evenings, people out for a sunset stroll, some gathering around the Dairy Queen to exchange pleasantries. Strange, these images were in shimmering sepia, devoid of all other color. But he was right—that had been over a decade before she was born. So strange, she could see the tableaux so clearly, as if she had lived them.
“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