Riding the Thunder - Deborah MacGillivray [7]
“’Night, Netta, Sam, Asha!” Melvin waved as he opened the door and stepped out into the warm October night.
Asha had just stuck the receipt in the basket by the register and closed the till when Sexy Lips leaned across the counter and asked, “May I have another Coors?”
A shiver slithered over her body, a cross between female fear instinct and instant turn-on. Wow! An image of that deep voice whispering sweet nothings to her in the middle of the night was enough to give her a hot flash.
As yet, Asha couldn’t determine what color the man’s eyes were, due to the recessed lighting, but their power rocked her to her toes. Forcing herself to turn to the glass-doored cooler behind her, she removed a Coors. She used the Pepsi-Cola wall-mount opener to snap off the top.
“Twist-off my arse,” she grumbled, then handed it to him.
As his fingers closed around its neck, hers flexed in a spasm about the brown bottle. Did beer have salt? Her grandmother had taught her and all her sisters never to pass a warlock salt. Asha now wondered if that included salt as an ingredient. Maeve had been Scottish, born on Falgannon Isle in the Hebrides, where the past wasn’t so distant and superstitions were the norm. Maeve believed if you passed a warlock salt, you’d open yourself to obeying his suggestions. When Asha had pressed why, Maeve said it was an old warlock’s trick, a test if you’d bend to his will. Asha guessed she should’ve clarified if that was salt in all forms.
The stranger’s black brows lifted, questioning her hold on the bottle. Perplexed amusement twinkled in those penetrating eyes, eyes the shade of green garnets, nearly so dark one might take them to be deep brown or black. They held a power, a force that rattled her.
Again, Falgannon Isle came to mind, where her sister BarbaraAnne lived. The island was under an ancient curse, which could only be broken if her sister—the Lady of the Isle—married a green-eyed man with black hair. She couldn’t help but think of B.A.’s curse as she stared this man in the face. Maybe she should pass B.A.’s address to him. He had black hair, green eyes and his voice held a sexy hint of Ireland—all three requirements to fulfill the dictates of B.A.’s curse.
A burning flare of jealousy exploded in the pit of her stomach. Strangely, she didn’t want her sexy blond goddess of a sister anywhere near this man.
Dismissing the weird thoughts, she released the beer.
“Thank you.” A hint of laughter touched his words. “For a moment I thought you were going to arm-wrestle me for it . . . though I can’t say I’d be averse to the idea of a tussle.”
She opened the till again, and set about arranging the bills so that the faces all pointed in the same direction. Any excuse to avoid those probing eyes. “Not for a beer. I don’t drink beer.”
“Beer, or alcohol in general?” he asked.
“Beer.” Asha closed the register, trying to think of some other chore she needed to do. An escape. There wasn’t anything, so she drew a cola from the fountain and held up the glass. “I’m a Pepsi addict.”
“That still doesn’t answer my question. Drink anything besides Pepsi?”
“The occasional whisky—without the E.” Asha forced herself to appear cool, calm and collected. Then why did her heart pound so erratically? No male had ever caused this reaction within her, on par with sticking her finger into an electrical socket.
“What’s wrong with beer?” the stranger pressed.
“I don’t care for the taste.” She shrugged one shoulder. “Sue me.”
His dark eyes danced with mischief. “Have you ever drunk a Coors?”
“No, I once drank a Dark Isle and a Wee Heavy.”
“Dark Isle? Wee Heavy?” he inquired.
“Scottish ales.”
“Ah, room temperature ale. You should try Coors. Big difference between American beer and European ale.” He pushed the bottle toward her. “Try it.”
She stared at the container, once again worrying if beer contained salt. This was too much like the Wicked Witch offering Snow White the poisoned apple, but instead of a witch she faced a warlock. Damn! She