Riding the Thunder - Deborah MacGillivray [53]
Liam’s eyebrows arched. “Slum? Where the hell did that come from?”
“Ignore her, she’s drunk.” Asha flopped forward to pick up the bottle, dislodging the cat. Jago’s hand closed over hers and removed her fingers from around the glass.
“I think you’ve both had enough for one evening.” He held The Macallan out of her reach as she followed it up, snatching at it.
“Hey, I’m toasting my new hostess—Netta.”
“Congratulations,” Liam said behind her. “A fine choice.”
Jago held the bottle to the side, his long arm keeping it away from Asha’s grasp. She finally stilled as she realized in reaching for the bottle, she was flush against his chest. Her eyes narrowed on him in that mix of female skittishness and a plea of I’m yours for the taking, which hit like a blow to his solar plexus. Breathing was impossible.
This self-imposed abstinence was going to short circuit his brain, and would push him into doing something very foolish before he considered all he faced in falling for this woman. Well, if he was going to suffer, then so could she! He lowered his head slightly, to where the scent of Asha filled his senses. She wore a light perfume with a touch of lemon and jasmine, which did little to cover the scent of the female underneath; silly woman had no idea how it made him want to toss back his head and howl like a wolf in rut. He let her feel his warmth, let her drink in his male pheromones, then watched as her pupils dilated with a hunger that matched his. Saw the power of surrender unfurled within her eyes.
Leaning close so that his mouth was against her hair, he said lowly, “Auld souls whisper ever so softly when they’re near.”
“And what do they whisper?” Asha almost swayed, and he thought it from the sexual buzz between them, not the whisky. The corner of his mouth crooked up.
“They whisper that little girls who go around without shoes get their tootsies stomped on by fat cats.”
Glancing down, Asha finally noticed the black puss standing on her bare feet and rubbing against her calf. She smiled crookedly.
“Jago’s coming out to the farm in the morning,” Liam announced, reminding them both that they weren’t alone. “He wants a tour of Valinor.”
Asha stepped back. Worse, Jago saw her withdrawing from him mentally as well.
“So he can get a better idea of the price tag?” she asked pointedly.
“Sheath your dagger, little sister. I invited him. He likes horses, and I’m always willing to show off my stock.” Liam chuckled, turning to face Jago. “A warning, my friend. Our grandmother Maeve was of old Pict blood and lived on Falgannon Isle in the Hebrides. The women of the Picts carried these strangely curved daggers. After a battle with the Vikings, they’d go around with that arched knife and castrate prisoners. Maeve had copies of an original cast, and presented them to each of her granddaughters when they turned twenty-one. My sisters are warrior women. Tread carefully around them.”
Jago bent down and patted the cat, who was trying to climb up his leg. “Warning heeded. Thanks. Asha has a tendency to lose her cool when someone mentions me buying things. I guess that explains why prickles creep up my spine when she eyes sharp objects.”
“I thought you ladies might like to join us. I could fix breakfast,” Liam suggested.
Netta smiled brightly. “Sexy as hell and can cook. You’d make someone a great wife.”
“Is that an offer?” Liam asked, challenge clear in his words.
“Laura and Tommy were lovers; he wanted to give her everything . . .” the jukebox began in the other room.
Everyone groaned.
Liam pulled Netta to her feet. “Shoes on, ladies. We’re out of here. Colin is showing a Vincent Price-Roger Corman film festival. If we hurry, we’ll be in time for The Haunted Palace and Masque of the Red Death.”
Jago frowned. “Aren’t those films from the ’60s?”
Liam shrugged. “Ask Asha. She’ll know. She’s the film buff in the family.”
“1963 and ’64, respectively,” Asha said, sliding on her shoes. “Why?”
“It just seems everything is from the ’60s around here,