Riding the Thunder - Deborah MacGillivray [5]
It would be riding thunder.
He nearly laughed aloud, realizing if he told her that—in all sincerity meaning it as the ultimate compliment—she’d probably deck him. Only a man would think comparing a woman to a Harley—not just any bike, mind you, but a Harley—was the highest praise. He recalled that old Robert Palmer song “Bang a Gong,” and the stanza about a woman being built like a truck. Females just didn’t get what Palmer wailed about. Men did. It was one of those Men are From Mars kind of stalemates. Few things born of man could bring Jago to his knees faster than a vintage Harley or the perfect woman.
And Asha Montgomerie, without a doubt, was the perfect woman. A man’s hottest fantasy come to life. His fantasy for far too long. Over the years he had studied dozens of photos of her. Then back in May at her grandfather’s funeral in England, he’d seen her from a distance. Brief glimpses that little prepared him for the up close effect this woman had on his system. It took all his control not to get to his feet, go to her, put a hand behind her neck and devour that small, pouty mouth.
Jago wanted her as he’d never wanted a woman before. Without hesitation he’d take her, possess her, brand her and never look back. Damning all consequences. Because like her, he too was a throwback. Too bad he was here to tear her safe, secure world apart. Before the dust settled, she’d likely hate his guts, despise him just as powerfully as he craved her.
Jago prayed he didn’t destroy them both before it was done.
CHAPTER TWO
Asha stared at the menu—not that she needed to read it. The Windmill served Cajun gumbo on Thursday, fresh halibut on Friday, Saturday and Sunday, a grilled New York strip that would melt in your mouth every day of the week, along with BLTs, club sandwiches and burgers and fries. She was aware Kentucky catfish was no longer a specialty on the menu, thanks to the sprawling suburban population of Lexington polluting the Kentucky River with their sewage. She knew the prices. Wouldn’t have to ask for availability. Small wonder since she ordered the food supplies each week.
She usually ate after the supper crowd thinned for the evening. Only, she had spent the day on the horse farm and was now ravenous, even though it was barely five. She’d eat early and be ready to handle the cash register, leaving Rhonda free to concentrate on seating customers as they shuffled in.
The long fingernails of her left hand tapped out a restless rhythm on the Formica tabletop while she feigned attention with the plastic covered menu. Asha tried to block out the man sitting at the counter, drinking a beer. Her eyes had spotted him the instant she came in, though she affected pretense that she hadn’t. Inside, her heart bounced against her ribs with a bruising force. Men like him were hard to miss. A female sensed their presence as much as saw them, some basic animalistic instinct that set off alarms.
“What’ll you have, Boss Lady?” Netta asked, setting a glass of ice water on a paper coaster. With a grin, she pulled a Bic pen from behind her ear, popped her gum, and waited.
“You ever wonder why we put paper coasters under our drinks when it’s a Formica top?” Asha asked blandly. She knew Netta was waiting for more than her order. The waitress wanted to gossip about Mr. Tall, Dark and Potently Sexy sitting on the stool.
Netta shrugged. “The Windmill has always put paper coasters under glasses.” She snapped her gum again and lifted her eyebrows. “You know what happens if you try to change anything around here. More than the natives get restless.”
Ignoring the comment, Asha folded the menu and handed it to the blonde. “New York strip, medium-rare, and a salad with French dressing. I’m famished.”
Netta spun exaggeratedly on her New Balance sneakers, her eyes sweeping over the man at the counter. “Hmm . . . I’m famished, too.” Giving Asha a wink, she took the order to the small window to the kitchen. She attached the ticket to the wheel, spun it around for Sam, then dinged the bell to get his attention.
The stranger on the