Riding the Thunder - Deborah MacGillivray [41]
“Someone?” Asha echoed blankly.
“The doors are locked, but the jukebox’s blaring. I don’t think they’re trying to rob the place . . .”
Without a word, Asha turned and walked back into the darkened bungalow, leaving him and the cat standing there. Jago glanced down at the feline. Its amber eyes looked up at him, then to the wide-open door. The beast almost shrugged as if saying, She left the door open—it’s an invitation, then went inside.
Jago shifted on his feet, then muttered, “Well, hell . . . the cat’s smarter than I am,” and entered Asha’s domain.
Though in shadow, he could tell the bungalow’s floor plan was a mirror of his own. His space had a motel ambience, while Asha had obviously made this small apartment into a home. He wondered at that, just as Desmond likely wondered about Asha’s sister BarbaraAnne, why these Montgomerie women eschewed the fancy elegance of Colford Hall in southern England, with its fifty bedrooms, staff of servants, and near royal splendor in favor of a smaller more middle-class lifestyle. Such behavior was puzzling to say the least. The women could live in the lap of luxury, never raise a finger to cook or clean, and yet, from Julian Starkadder’s reports, B.A. seemed to love her small island life on Falgannon, and Asha had deliberately set out a year ago to bring The Windmill under her total control.
He moved through the shadows, toward where she had disappeared. Light came from the room, and since the door was open, he used the cat’s rule of thumb—viewed it as an invitation—and followed her. The black beast rematerialized, rubbing against his leg as he stared at Asha. She was halfway into a pair of jeans, the gown bunching up on her thighs, then waist, as she shimmied into the tight denim.
He swallowed hard as she pulled the gown off. Her back was beautiful, finely arched with strong, square shoulders. He’d like nothing more than to go down on his knees and trace that graceful spine with his tongue. Instead, he leaned against the doorframe and simply drank in her perfection. The fat cat twined around his ankles, but he was barely aware.
She pulled on a teal sweater, then tugged her long hair. Only then did she turn and see him standing there. Barefoot, she walked to the door, expecting him to move. Jago remained where he was, deliberately blocking her way, pheromones bouncing between them to where he could hardly think straight. She looked up at him, her expression unreadable.
“You’re playing with fire,” he warned.
Instead of looking scared of him, those haunting eyes traced the lines of his face. “Am I?”
“Damn straight. One of these days I’ll stop behaving like a gentleman and show you.”
The corner of her small, full mouth quirked up. “Maybe one of these days I’ll let you.”
He glared at her feet. “Shoes?”
She made a grumpy face and slid on a pair of old ballet slippers, then snatched up her keys off the nightstand.
As they moved around the side of the restaurant, music floated into the night: Peter & Gordon—crooning about a world without love. “Your jukebox is stacked deep with music from the 1960s. You have a passion for that era?”
“Ah . . . hmm . . . it’s an . . . acquired taste, you might say.” Asha looked down at the cat, who was trailing along with them. “Your familiar?”
“I figured he was your cat.”
“Never saw him before.” She paused at the restaurant door and rattled the handle. It was locked. “Hardly looks a stray, being that fat.”
Tail twitching, the cat gave her a stare that said he resented the remark, that he was just pleasingly plump, thank you.
Jago peeked over her shoulder and saw the shadowy figures, still there dancing. “I knocked on the door; they ignored me.”
Asha fiddled with her key ring until she found the right key. The lock turned easily, and then the glass door swung inward.
Jago nearly plowed into her back when she stopped just inside. His stare went right to where the couple had been. Nothing. The iridescent silver jukebox with the red lights still played, but now it