Riding the Thunder - Deborah MacGillivray [4]
Sunlight caught and was refracted through the full glass door as Asha opened it, blinding him for an instant. Then she rematerialized, born from the brilliant shafts. The setting sun’s aura followed her with an arcane sentience, greedily clinging to her to form a red-gold halo about her, a breath-stealing shard of time that burned deep into his soul. When he was old and gray, he’d recall this instant as if yesterday and remember its power, how it moved him.
Not a classic beauty, Asha’s face was arresting, feline. Her jawline hinted at the Montgomerie stubbornness, though the faint cleft in her chin softened the effect. Jago’s body bucked as he imagined running the side of his thumb over that shadowy dip, seeing those cat eyes watching him, spellbound by his action. A flicker of arrogance flashed in those amber eyes, but the haughtiness was understated, carried off with a regal self-assurance few women ever truly achieved.
Asha glanced about the room in a disinterested fashion, her hair rippling like silk down her finely arched spine. Golden brown: Jago deemed that label pathetically inadequate. Asha’s locks shimmered with a thousand golds, fiery to pale auburns and vibrant browns. That mane provoked an appetite to see it spread across a pillow as he drove himself into her slick, welcoming body, to feel it draped and cool over his burning skin. A hunger that would force a throwback like him to howl.
A wicked smile tugged at the corner of his mouth when the jukebox changed tunes and the singer began ah-ooing about “The Werewolf of London.” Given a British passport was in the glove box of his leased Jeep Cherokee, and the fact Asha provoked him to consider howling, he chalked one up for odd quirks of fate and timing.
It was fascinating to observe the emotional shifts on male faces as they watched Asha pass. Clearly, they wanted her. Oh, did they want her! Nonetheless, Jago doubted any would approach her. She stared men in the eye, dismissing them with a bat of her long lashes with a poise that would send all but the most voracious meat eaters running. They would look her up and down and lick their chops, but the power, the regnancy radiating from her would humble all. Most would feel guilty for even daring to look, to wish, knowing they were unworthy. Only sheer morons with nothing to lose would take the risk.
Or a man as assured of himself as Jago.
Asha’s aloof scan of the dining room finally reached him. Her tawny-brown eyes widened as their stares collided. The witchy force of those cat eyes rocked him, stole his breath. Lightning sizzled along his nerves as the odd moment in time lengthened. All else faded. Never had he felt so connected to anyone.
Then, with a sweep of her lashes, she pretended not to notice him.
“Nice try, Asha,” he said under his breath, then took a long draw of his beer to kill his parched throat. Jago Luxovius Fitzgerald Mershan, you’re one lucky sonofabitch—or cursed, he mused.
Asha spoke to the hostess, her words lost to restaurant chatter. Evidently, she requested the blinds be dropped, for the woman did just that, plunging the diner into shadow. Asha went ahead and seated herself in a booth about halfway back, on the side opposite of the long row of windows.
Jago’s position on the stool at the counter was dead center on the aisle, affording him a splendid show. Oh yeah, this Scottish miss had one sweet ass! The way she moved sent his blood into a low, rocking thrum, similar to a Harley-Davidson jump-starting in his chest. Yep, that’s what Asha reminded him of—his classic ’67 Harley Electra Glide in black—all sleek curves and lines, created so a man craved to climb on for the ride of his life. He contemplated if Asha made love Harley-style: zero to a hundred mph in the blink of