Riding the Thunder - Deborah MacGillivray [50]
She liked him. Maybe too much.
She studied Jago interacting with the eclectic men in her life. Judging them. They likely missed it, but she saw how he lost to them on purpose. He was patient, astute, and little got past his incisive mind. Her crew was out of their league in dealing with him. Bloody hell, she was out of her league with him.
Jago looked up, his green eyes locking with hers. Their power, their force took her breath away. All around her faded to a blur. She trembled as his mind crawled under her skin, brushed against hers. There wasn’t any way she could hide from him. No shield. No protection: the power of their attraction wrapped around them, bonded them into a moment when the whole world held its breath.
Damn! She’d come into the shadowy office trying to get away from him, what he provoked her to feel. Hadn’t she learned the hard way never to trust a pretty man? “Then why are you standing here falling for the jerk?” she whispered.
“Because women are fools.” Netta came to stand by the door. “No use hiding in there, sugarplum. You can tell yourself to be smart, to remember this or that. Bottom line, we lack even an ounce of self-preservation and will still stick our finger in the socket knowing . . .”
Asha prompted, “Knowing?”
“We dream for something we can never have.” Netta sighed sadly. Asha followed her friend’s vivid blue eyes to Liam.
“Hell, Netta, we could form our own Maudlin & Misery Society.” Asha marched over to the desk, opened the bottom drawer and pulled out a bottle of 12-year-old The Macallan Scotch. “I’ve been saving this for a rainy night. This qualifies. There’s nothing more disgusting—”
The stupid Wurlitzer took that moment once more to come to life. Asha gritted her teeth as Gene Pitney blasted out how it hurts to be in love.
Holding the bottle in her hand, she waved it and pointed with her finger. “Someone needs to murder that creepy thing.”
Netta laughed and snatched the bottle. “Brandishing this accomplishes nothing.” She tugged the stopper from the neck, paused and said, “Here’s to beautiful men and foolish women who adore them.” Then, Netta took a big slug. She wiggled her eyebrows. “Ooooh, that’s good Scotch.”
Asha claimed the bottle and inhaled a swig. “Whisky without the E, mind you. I’m a full-blooded Scots lass. I dunna need a friggin’ E in me whisky. The Macallan is the only malt distillery to use sherry wood exclusively. Its nose shows hints of sherry, lemons, pears and honey. ‘A bewitching mouth feel’—whatever the hell that means.”
“It means it’s a damn fine whisky.” Netta sniggered and took the bottle back. “Here’s to the late, great Gene Pitney. God bless you, Gene. You sure belted one soulful tune.”
“Brits appreciated Pitney.” Asha snagged The Macallan and motioned to the couch. When the fat cat pussyfooted into the office and jumped up on the sofa, she asked. “How did you get in here? I put you on the sun porch.”
Netta flopped down, her feet bouncing in the air. “Maybe whommmmever plugged in the jukebox again let him in.”
“Well, then they can wait on customers. I’m off the clock.” Kicking off her shoes, Asha started to propose a toast, then paused trying to think of someone worthy of a salute. With a smile, she said, “Here’s to Leanne Burroughs. One damn fine Scottish Romance writer.”
“Oooh, here’s to men in kilts who speak in lilts!” Netta threw back her head and laughed. “I is a poet and don’t know it.”
“A Highlander doesn’t have a lilt. He speaks with a burr.”
“Ahhh . . . even better. Does Liam own a kilt?” Her eyes flew wide. “Is it true what they say a Highlander wears under his kilt?”
“Or doesn’t wear, you mean?” Asha goaded, “You’ll have to ask my brother about that.”
“Ask, hell—I want a demonstration.”
From the doorway, Rhonda cleared her throat. “I hate to interrupt this little party . . .”—meaning