Riding the Thunder - Deborah MacGillivray [6]
This man unnerved her. Rarely did men do that to her. Actually, no man had. With her intense catlike eyes, she could look down her nose and set even the strongest ones to feeling like slugs. The ability was second nature to her, she turned on the frost and glared as if he were something she’d stepped in.
As a rule, that sent them running. Not this one. As though he not only knew the rules to the game, but also had a cheat sheet, the stranger leaned back against the counter with a wolfish grin and looked his fill. Not even pretending to do anything else, he just stared at her. It was damn unsettling. She couldn’t even pretend to gaze out the windows at the pastoral scenery of the horse farm across the road; she’d asked Rhonda to close the blinds against the harsh afternoon glare.
“Here you go.” Netta set an iced Pepsi, a salad and a basket of rolls before her. She stepped so that her body blocked Asha from the stranger’s view. “You know that man at the counter?”
Thankful Netta had given her the perfect excuse for taking her eyes from the invader, Asha broke a roll and buttered it. “What man?”
Netta gave a mocking laugh and popped her gum a couple times. “Nice try, sugarplum. Men like that are impossible not to notice.”
“Never saw him before in my life.” Asha sipped the cola. Oh, she would remember this man had they met.
A master gossip, Netta excelled at knowing when to tell all, when to hint. With her smart mouth and flashing baby-blue eyes, she’d charm a person’s life history from them in a wink. The Windmill likely had higher profits this past year and a long line of regulars due to Netta’s down-home charm. What she knew about the stranger would be forthcoming.
The only way to play the game, Asha mused, was to answer a question with a question. “Why would you think I know him?”
“Sexy Lips has a foreign accent. British I think, like yours. Gives a gal shivers.” Netta hugged herself and then chewed her gum. “Also, I get this sense he was waiting for something . . . maybe you. My granny knew things. She passed that on to me.”
“Steak’s up, Netta,” Sam, their cook, called through the open space, setting a plate up on the warmer.
“Back in two shakes.” Netta went to pick up the inch-thick steak and returned to place it before Asha. “Eat up, sugarplum.” She glanced sideways at the black-haired visitor and raised her eyebrows. “Looks like you’re gonna need all your strength.”
“I sure enjoyed that dinner. You tell Sam that, eh, Asha?” Melvin Jackson said, picking up a peppermint from the bowl at the side of the register. He unwrapped the cellophane and then popped the candy into his mouth, waiting for her to ring up his ticket.
Sam poked his head up in the small window. “Sam heard your big mouth flappin’. So, you liked the gumbo?”
Melvin patted his round stomach. “Damn fine meal—though just a pinch too much sassafras and not enough filé powder.”
“Bah. It was perfect.” Sam frowned and waved in dismissal. “My granny, born down on the Bayou Teche, was teaching me how to make gumbo while you were barely an itch in your daddy’s britches, you old coot.”
“Who’s an old coot?” Jackson snapped, though it was with a twinkle in his eye.
Asha counted out Melvin’s change, only half listening to the routine these two went through every Thursday night. Each week, Melvin came in for the gumbo dinner; each time he and Sam fussed over the filé powder and sassafras. A running game between the two. Tonight, however, she could barely keep her attention on them. She felt the stranger watching her. Perturbed, she tried to tune him out, ignore him as if she remained unaware of his presence.