Riding the Thunder - Deborah MacGillivray [8]
He remarked, “First, you almost won’t let me have the beer, now you stare at it as if I’m offering you a cobra.”
“I’m working.” Asha grasped at the convenient reason.
He laughed softly. The low sexy rumble wormed its way under her skin, spreading goosebumps across her body. “Chicken.” His brows lifted in a dare.
Damn, she really wished she knew if they used salt in brewing beer. “I don’t drink with strangers.”
He leaned forward and stuck out his right hand. “Jago Fitzgerald.”
Asha stared at it. A beautiful hand. You could tell a lot about a man from his hands. The fingernails were clean and manicured, not a nail biter, saying he wasn’t the nervous sort. No calluses, yet they weren’t soft. She judged he had some sort of indoor job, but used those strong hands on weekends to exercise. The fingers were long, elegant. Hands of a magician. Hands of a lover—hands of a bloody warlock trying to trick her into doing his bidding!
“Jago?” She tested the resonance of his name. Though his accent was British, he pronounced it with a long a Irish sound. Instead of Jag-o, it was Jay-go.
“It’s Old English for—”
“James, I know. I just never met one walking around before.” He waited for her to accept his hand. When she didn’t, his left brow arched. Well, damn him, no man called her chicken twice! She took his hand. It was warm, dry. “Asha Montgomerie.” A shiver went up her arm, lodged in her shoulder, then her neck. Yeppers, he was a ruddy warlock.
His handshake was firm. His thumb traced a small circle on her palm three times before releasing it. What? Was that some sort of old warlock school handshake? Asha wondered.
For an instant something hot flickered in his dark eyes. Asha had the odd inkling he thought about using that hand to pull her to him and kiss her. Then it was gone. She chalked it up to a trick of the recessed lights.
He let go. She thought she’d passed the test rather well, outside the electrical shock and imagining he’d wanted to kiss her. Then his left hand waggled the Coors by its long neck. Caught up in thinking Netta was right—he did have sexy lips—Asha blinked, recalling he had goaded her to take a drink of his beer.
She slowly accepted the Coors, saw a smug smile almost escape before he reformed his face to seriousness. Taking the brown bottle, she turned it around and stared at the label.
“What? It’s a Coors.” He laughed.
Oh, she liked that laugh. “I was looking for a list of ingredients. Every bloody thing has ingredients and daily nutritional requirements these days—even bottled water. But not beer. T.M.”
“T.M.?” he queried.
“Typically Male. Don’t mess with male bastions like beer.”
“What’s to know? Barley, hops, water and yeast?”
She hesitated and then admitted, “I wondered if there was salt in it.”
“On a low sodium diet?”
She smiled, suddenly enjoying the banter. “Something akin to that.” Feeling silly, she took a sip, then passed him the bottle back. “Thanks, but no thanks. I’ll stick to Pepsi, Cherry Coke and 7-Up.”
“Cherry Coke? If you’re a Pepsi addict, why not Cherry Pepsi?”
“Cherry Coke is an old favorite around here,” Asha replied evasively, then chided, “You want a burger and fries with those beers?”
“I’m waiting ’til the supper crowd thins a bit more. Then I’d like one of those strip steaks with onion rings. And don’t nag. I’ve only had three beers in the last two hours. I’m not driving; I only have to stagger a few feet up the knoll.” He winked. Winks like that should be outlawed as unsafe for female consumption.
“Up the knoll? As in one of the bungalows?” Oh great, he’s right next to me. Talk about temptation under her nose!
Jago nodded with a roguish twitch at the corner of his mouth. His eyes shifted to Netta as she came through the swinging door, carrying a tray with slices of strawberry pie, each topped with a swirl of whipped cream.
“Hey, darling,” he said, “on your next pass into the kitchen how about tossing one of those steaks on the grill for me? And a side of onion rings?”
The blonde