Riding the Thunder - Deborah MacGillivray [42]
“Yesterday isn’t the only thing gone,” he grumbled, stumped where the couple had vanished. “Well, they didn’t slip out through the kitchen. I tried it before.”
Asha went through the swinging door to double check. “Yep, locked tight,” she confirmed upon her return.
“Could they’ve gotten out through the main part of the house where it connects to the motel?”
“They’d have to go past Delbert.” Asha shrugged in doubt. “Of course, if he is napping, Sherman could march the Union army through the lobby on the way to Georgia and not wake him. Poor dear is quite hard of hearing.”
She went past the jukebox, up the steps and into the main part of the house, the glass atrium opening into the rear of the motel lobby; Jago and the cat followed on her heels.
Delbert looked up as she entered. “Hey, Asha, what you doing up? Something wrong with our counterfeiter’s bungalow?”
“Counterfeiter?” Jago echoed, eyeing Asha.
She had the grace to blush. “All those hundred dollar bills you toss about.”
“Mae always thought she’d be a writer. Good imagination our Asha has.” Delbert chuckled. “Just sometimes a bit too fanciful.”
Asha stuck out her tongue at him. “Did anyone come through this entrance?”
“Well, you did—”
“Anyone else, Delbert?”
“Nope, been quiet all night.”
“Except for the jukebox playing?” Jago pressed.
Delbert eyed the younger man guardedly. “Uh . . . yeah. Tends to do that from time to time.” Seeing the black cat rubbing against Asha’s legs, he clearly seized upon the kitty as a change of subject. “That cat belongs to our counterfi—to Mr. Fitzgerald? You have to pay a deposit when you have a pet. What’s his name?”
“No idea,” Jago replied, but the beast rushed back to him, purring loudly.
Delbert frowned, confused. “You don’t know your cat’s name?”
“I don’t have one.” Jago tried to step back, but the cat wound around his legs.
Asha sniggered. “Seems he’s not on the same page as you. ’Night, Delbert.”
“’Night, Asha, Jago—Kitty.”
Asha sped off, back into the restaurant, so Jago hurried to catch up. He waited until the door to the lobby was closed before insisting, “I did see a man and a woman in here dancing. So where did they go?”
She didn’t reply, just shrugged.
He caught her arm, pulling her around. “I didn’t imagine them, Asha.”
“I never said you did. And I don’t have an explanation. At least . . .” She hesitated.
“At least what?”
“At least one you’re willing to hear,” she finished lamely.
The jukebox suddenly switched to another Pitney tune, a haunting ballad. “Something’s gotten hold of my heart, keeping my soul and my senses apart . . .”
All questions about the intruders vanished as Jago was caught in the power of the moment. The reddish glow from the Wurlitzer lent a decorative feel to the dim restaurant. But it little mattered; he couldn’t see anything but Asha. She drew him, mesmerized him, made the world new again. There was some strange bond, a connection between them. Something ancient, primitive.
He sensed she was aware of it and as puzzled by it as he. His besotted mind searched for words to define his feelings. Love? Oh, it was love. He was falling hard, and at a speed that was utterly terrifying. This fey link made him feel as if he’d known her all his life, all that had come before was merely a waiting game, passing the days until they met.
“Auld souls,” he whispered, reaching out to run the side of his thumb back and forth across that faint cleft in her chin, as he’d envisioned doing when he first stared at her two days ago.
Asha’s eyes locked with his. So many things were there: surprise, awe, intrigue . . . a glitter of a tear. Damn, Jago thought. He’d never considered a half-formed tear could bring him to his knees.
“Auld . . . souls?” she echoed, as if she wanted to know more yet in the same breath was terrified of his answer.
He nodded and took her wrist, pulling her into an embrace, slow-dancing to the music. “You feel it, too. As if we’ve known each other before. Always.”
The Pitney song ended and was replaced by the soft voice