Riding the Thunder - Deborah MacGillivray [43]
Jago lifted a brow. “See, even the damn jukebox knows.”
Asha nervously licked her lips, trying to smile. “That Wurlitzer has a mind of its own. I actually got fed up with it, sold it once. Had an offer of $35,000 for it and its wallettes. When they came to uninstall it, they ran into . . . hmm . . . trouble. It damn near electrocuted them every time they tried to take it out.”
He chuckled. “Why didn’t you just cut the power?”
“We did. It kept coming back on. So it stays here . . . playing all these tunes from the ’60s, along with a handful of others it deems worthy enough.” Determination was behind her words as she added, “Where it belongs.”
He chose to ignore the challenge in her eyes, daring him to say he would buy The Windmill. “When you dance with the devil, lass, there’s hell to pay.”
“I hadn’t kenned I danced with Satan himself.”
“Live ‘n’ learn, lass, live ‘n’ learn.”
Jago loved how they fit: Her height perfect as if she were crafted just for him. He wouldn’t have to bend far to capture that small, full mouth. He stopped dancing, just rocked with her as he sang along with Dionne, then lowered his head to hers.
Knowing it was madness, he brushed his mouth against hers. She tasted sweet, with a tart hint of lemon. She tasted exotic, she tasted . . . familiar.
He should never have kissed her, not even this light brushing of lips. The fathomless hunger that had prowled within him for the last ten months sprang to life. He needed her more than air, needed to brand her as his to claim her in the most primitive way, as a man claimed his mate.
His hands slid up and down her back, urging her against him. She melted, pliant, molding those lush curves against his hard planes. That blew his mind. He inched back, trying to find something solid to lean against, finally coming against the front of the Wurlitzer with a jolt that jarred the song to end abruptly.
He spread his legs and pressed Asha closer, a sigh rolling through his thoughts, a whisper of I’m coming home.
“I AM THE GOD OF HELLFIRE, AND I BRING YOU . . . FIRE! I’LL TAKE YOU TO BURN . . .”
Startled, Jago leapt up off his feet, knocking them both off balance. The cat squalled as Asha stepped on its long tail, sending the creature scurrying under the table of the nearest booth. Out of danger, the beast watched as the humans went down in a tangle of arms and legs. Asha tossed her head back, laughing; tears came to her eyes and she had trouble catching her breath.
Jago leaned on one elbow. His other hand on his heart, he rubbed his chest. “Jeez Louise! What the hell is that?”
“The Crazy World of Arthur Brown’s ‘Fire.’ Asha named the ’60s song.
The jukebox screamed, “YOU’RE GONNA BURN!”
“Well, I was on my way to doing just that”—he glared at the machine—“before you scared me out of ten years of my life, you possessed pile of junk!”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Asha glanced out the restaurant window, watching the steady rain. It had stopped just after she returned to the bungalow from swimming last night, but this morning came down as if settling in for the rest of the day. She looked forward to rainy days, relished the smells, the sounds, the lazy pace. In Scotland they called it the soft, and it made her want to go walking aimlessly for hours. It soothed her soul. Renewed her. She was aware most Kentuckians didn’t share her delight. When she gave in to the urge and strolled through the pouring rain, locals observed her with a jaundiced eye. “Crazy foreigner,” they muttered and shook their heads.
Typical for a rainy day, the customers stayed away from The Windmill, as though they were made of sugar and would melt should raindrops hit them. The restaurant was virtually dead, which pleased Asha. She enjoyed leisurely days in the diner. They had a special feel.
Even the jukebox had been quiet.
Winnie MacPhee sat in the corner booth with two dozen scratch-off lottery tickets, working her penny furiously. At least, that was her excuse for still being here. She kept glancing out the