Riding the Thunder Read online

  “My brother will bust a gut before he admits he can’t keep up.” Asha sniggered.

  Netta cocked a questioning eyebrow. “What makes you think he can’t? I’d say they’re rather evenly matched.”

  “Jago says he swims nearly every day. While Liam is active, he doesn’t do any exercise regularly. That gives Jago the edge. Two-to-one that Liam quits first.” Asha shrugged.

  “Done!” Netta did a pass with her hand, pointing to the chaise lounges. “Let’s plop our fannies down and watch the show. Better than television, and less fattening than chocolate.”

  “I thought there wasn’t anything you liked more than chocolate.” Asha spread a towel and then stretched her legs out on a chaise.

  “Sugarplum, if I had your brother near for 365 days a year, I’d give up chocolate in any form.” She studied Asha intently. “Do you have a problem with that?”

  “You giving up chocolate?” Asha laughed, shifting her eyes to the swimmers, and enjoying the show.

  “Would it create a sticky situation if I were to see Liam?” Netta’s expression was serious.

  “You mean you cannot see him?” Teasing, she waved a hand before Netta’s eyes. “Maybe you’re suffering an overdose of chocolate.”

  “Get stuffed, Asha. I’m serious. You and I are nearly ten years apart in age, but our friendship isn’t something I’d risk lightly.”

  “I get along with you like a sister,” Asha said. “As far as Liam, you’re adults—you don’t need my approval.”

  “I want it, though.” Netta glanced at Liam, who lagged a meter behind Jago now. “I’m a couple years older than he is. I’ll be forty come January.”

  “That means anything? You don’t look it. If I hadn’t taken your job application, I’d guess you were about my age. As for my idiot brother, you have my blessings. You’d be good for him. Sometimes he’s too wrapped up in the horse farm. I worry about him should this sale go through. Also, he’s lonely, I think.”

  Liam surfaced under the diving board, held on to the drain with his left hand, and snorted water from his nose. Jago did another lap, then surfaced to take hold with his right. Their words were low, but then their laughter rang out, filling the glasshouse.

  “I won the bet.” Asha wiggled her toes.

  “I’m telling you, if you don’t latch on to Jago Fitzgerald and hogtie him, you’ve got rocks for brains, sugarplum. There aren’t many with such elegance, raw sexual power, grace and smarts, and he’s got them in spades.”

  “Jago scares me, reminds me of a beautiful black wolf. He hangs back, watching, singling me out of the herd. It spooks me.”

  “Yeah, I thought that when he showed up. I told you—he was waiting for you.”

  “Why me?” Asha mused, slightly unsettled by the idea. Her little voice warned she needed to consider that further, but then her eyes met his across the pool, locking, and all thoughts fled her besotted brain.

  “When you have the Big Bad Wolf cutting you from the pack, you learn to smile and play Little Red Riding Hood. ‘My what a big tongue you have—all the better to . . .’” Netta’s sexy laughter taunted Asha. Rising, the blonde untied her robe. “Remember, wolves mate for life. Now, that drop dead gorgeous brother of yours reminds me of a Siberian tiger. That loose-gaited stalk belies all that muscle. Excuse me while I go bungle in the jungle.”

  Netta strolled the length of the pool, long-legged and barely covered in her baby-blue striped bikini. Her saunter was natural, with no jiggling, as if she’d learnt to walk with a book on her head like a runway model. Both men couldn’t take their eyes off the sexy blonde. It wouldn’t have surprised Asha if the water at that end of the pool rose ten degrees. Netta stepped up on the diving board, then jack-knifed perfectly into the water.

  Jago turned back to Asha and lifted his brows, challenge in his dark eyes. Quite odd, she read his mind so clearly, that almost tangible link between them rising again. His unspoken question could not have been plainer—Can you top that?

  Asha was suddenly riddled with near crippling self-consciousness. When she’d changed in the bungalow, instead of donning her royal blue suit that she usually wore, the super sexy one she’d purchased years ago for a honeymoon trip to the Bahamas snagged her eye. The wedding had been cancelled two days after she’d bought it, when she’d caught her fiancé giving the stiff one to his blonde-bimbo secretary. The swimsuit had stayed forlornly at the back of her drawer for over five years, never worn, the original price tag still attached.

  A black-gold maillot weave, the one-piece suit covered more of Asha’s body than Netta’s bikini—at least the front did. A deep scoop neck plunged low on her breasts and had French-cut legs, very flattering. The back was what tended to be not all there. The straps met on the shoulders and merged into an inch-wide strip that followed the line of her spine down to the thong bottom.

  At least she’d been smart enough to put it on and give her reflection a hard inspection in the full-length mirror before coming to the pool. She’d lost seven pounds since she bought it, which only accented her 34D chest. Asha had never felt comfortable in a bikini, though surprisingly, she felt at ease, confident in this bit of nothing. Or had. Now she wished she’d played coward and gone with the more sedate suit that covered her arse!

  Once more Jago demonstrated their fey connection. Turning his back to the pool wall, he stretched out his beautiful arms along the drain in a signal that he wasn’t moving until she took off her black robe. This ability to read him unnerved her.

  What would it feel like to make love to a man so attuned to you that his thoughts brushed your mind? The near telepathy would see her arousal stronger, as she would know what he felt, experienced, doubling their passion since he’d feed off her reactions, too.

  Ignoring the hard fist to her womb, she slowly rose to her feet, meeting his dare. She untied the belt around her terry robe, and let it slide off her shoulders to pool around her feet. His smug smile vanished, and one of Jago’s arms dropped off the edge of the drain.

  “Hope he didn’t skin it.” She chuckled. Shoulders squared, she sauntered the few paces to the side stairs where she entered the pool’s shallow end, aware that Jago’s eyes tracked her every move.

  As she used the steps to enter into the tantalizingly warm water, Asha glanced down at the silken liquid gently lapping at her legs. Strangely lightheaded, a spinning sense of déjà vu overwhelmed her. She blinked.

  Everything shifted.

  The pool was no longer enclosed in the glasshouse, but open to the air. A soft spring breeze stirred the circle of red, blue, green and orange Japanese lanterns . . .

  Laura listened to Gene Pitney crooning the poignant “Town Without Pity,” the record spinning on a player set up underneath the wrought-iron staircase that went straight to the roof of The Windmill’s clubhouse. She half-heartedly took in the paper lanterns that ran along the rim of the sundeck, illuminating couples slow dancing in the deep shadows. Young men wore tuxedo jackets, while girls in full-skirted formals had their hair up in angel curls.

  “Junior prom for Leesburg High,” she muttered.

  Her sigh was dejected. Small wonder. The previous week had seen a flurry of activity in the small town. Excited for weeks, the girls had picked out formals and had their shoes dyed to match their gowns. Fearing not being able to get in for the all-important day, they had set up appointments well ahead of time to have their hair done at Juanita’s Wash & Curl.

  Laura failed to share the excitement of this night. Oh, her gown was beautiful—a pale yellow, a shade most girls couldn’t wear without looking sallow. On her, it was perfect. Like her classmates, she’d also had her shoes dyed the same delicate shade of her formal.

  “Just going through the motion,” she confessed to the soft night.

  Drawing the line, she’d worn only one petticoat and not starched so it stood out like an ironing board. She had fixed her own hair, eschewing Juanita’s beehive or angel curls specials, and wore it up, but in a simpler s
tyle, with a hint of the Victorian era. She felt pretty. Even so, she wished she was anywhere but here.

  Because Tommy wasn’t her date.

  “Jerk.” She choked back tears.

  If Tommy had escorted her, the night would’ve been magical. She’d nearly made herself sick for weeks before working up the courage to ask him. He’d been home, up all night cramming for finals, and looked deliciously sleepy when he answered the front door. Ooooh, she had just wanted to step against him and kiss that sexy mouth good morning. Instead, she’d made silly chitchat until she finally stammered out the words and asked him if he would take her. He’d smiled, listened to her request, and then laughed. He’d laughed!

  “No way am I escorting you to the Junior Prom, Laura,” he’d said, “so just get it out of your pretty head. No college man in his right mind would be caught dead at a party for a bunch of juniors.”

  Her joy at him calling her pretty had soured as he’d shattered her dream of going with him. After that she’d wanted to stay home, but her mother wouldn’t hear of it, and when Erica Valmont put her foot down, there was no changing her mind. With mild distaste, Laura had accepted a date with nerdy Junior Donner—their mothers’ doing. Junior didn’t have a date either. It was hard to be the only ones staying home. With their class so small—only thirty-three—if you failed to attend you may as well hang a billboard around your neck announcing, ‘I’m a loser and can’t get a date.’ Thus, she’d come in the beautiful formal, feeling as pretty as a faery princess. A princess who lacked her prince.

  The night was almost hot, odd for May. The gentle breeze brushed against her bare arms with a gossamer touch, pushing her to feel restless. The pool whispered a tempting lure.

  “For a double-dog-dare, I’d unhook my garters, bunch this damn petticoat up and go wading.” And she meant it.

  There was a lull in the tunes as the hired disc jockey, Rusty Rogers, from WAKY loaded 45s onto the spindle changer. Lesley Gore’s clear voice sang out that it was her party and she’d cry if she wanted to, cry if she wanted to, cry if she wanted to—causing Laura to glance up. She saw the group of college kids coming up the concrete stairs winding up the hillside to The Windmill’s clubhouse. Tommy was halfway back in the group of seven couples. Her heart dropped, and then started a slow thud as their eyes met.

  He was so handsome! He was wearing a white shawl tuxedo and wore it like a man, instead of like the juniors playing grown-up. Most of the guys still wore their hair in a pompadour in the front and combed into a ducktail in the back, a stubborn holdover from the late ’50s, showing styles were slow to die here. Brylcreem still made a tidy profit in Backwater Kentucky! But not Tommy. His hair was short, kept that way because the thick black curls were too wavy to do much else. The look suited him. He was elegance and male grace . . . and with another girl.

  “Damn him! Oh, how I’d love to kick him in the seat of his pants!”

  Catching her eyes on him, he smiled. Tears threatened, but he wouldn’t be able to see them from that distance. She reeled from the pain.

  “The bastard couldn’t take little old Laura to her Junior Prom because a college senior couldn’t take a junior in high school, eh? Yet, he dares turn up with a date, he and his snotty college friends crashing the party. Ooooh.” She spun away, unable to look at him. Putting a hand to her stomach, she feared she might puke.

  The night had been crappy enough without having to face the one person in the whole world—the only person—she’d wanted to escort her.

  In her girlish dreams, Laura envisioned Tommy, handsome in his tux, them dancing slowly in some dark corner. Tommy stealing a first kiss. It’d been painful enough to have him laugh at her after she finally sucked up the courage to ask him to take her. His crashing the party with a girlfriend was about as cruel as he could get.

  In the background, Lesley Gore wailed obscenely about her boyfriend coming to her party with another girl, acid to Laura’s wounds.

  Heading off trouble, the chaperones confronted the group. The junior class had paid for the party, so Laura hoped they’d send them packing. If Tommy were closer, she’d likely dump the punch bowl over the jerk’s head.

  After words were exchanged, the group from the University of Kentucky was permitted to go up on the sundeck and dance—as long as they behaved. “Fat chance of them behaving.” UK kids wanted nothing to do with a teen dance where there wasn’t liquor. That left trouble. The chaperones were shortsighted to think otherwise. Laura noted a few guys already staggered while navigating the narrow staircase. “I bet my pale yellow shoes they’ve been drinking.”

  The last one to the stairs was Tommy the Rat—with his date, Joy Dinwiddie. He paused with his hand on the rail and smiled at Laura. Joy pushed at his back, nudging him to go on up. His smile faded as he felt the blast of Laura’s icy fury, and a question lit his dark green eyes.

  Tommy stared at her with an unreadable expression. Flashing Laura a dirty look, Joy pushed at him again. He shrugged the blonde off and started toward Laura. Unable to face him, she turned away. He caught up with her in a couple strides. Grabbing her bare upper arm, he pulled her around. His incisive stare lanced her heart.

  “Laura, what’s wrong?”

  “Bastard. Are you that cruel and insensitive?” Her long lashes batted away the tears.

  He seemed puzzled. “Cruel? What do you mean?”

  “God, you’re thick!” she growled. “Did your IQ suddenly drop? Or is this punishment for me daring to hang around, hoping someday . . . ?”

  Laura couldn’t go on. What a silly fool she’d been. It stopped here and now. Tommy Grant was bane to her. She tried to jerk away from him.

  Tommy tugged her back to face him again. Before she knew what she did, she slapped him. Hard. She read the shock on his face. Part of her was stunned, too. Part wanted to do it again.

  “What the hell was that for?” He blinked, still not believing that his adoring acolyte dared raise a hand to him or stare with such loathing.

  “You have to ask? Well, Mr. Suddenly-Stupid, I begged you to bring me to this dance. But no. Something about no college man in his right mind would be caught dead at a party for a bunch of juniors. Now, what do I see? Seven BMOCs here. You arrogant, think-you’re-so-damn-hot college men are here to cause trouble and make fun of us. Well, jump in your cars. You aren’t wanted here.” She tried to shove away from him, but he held her by the upper arms. “Leave me alone. In fact—just leave.”

  One of the chaperones—Mr. Taylor—came over. “Laura, is everything all right? Is there a problem here?”

  Tommy held up his hands, backing off. With a strange expression of regret, he spun on his heel and headed to the stairs, taking them two at a time. Laura glanced up to the sunroof, still seething with anger. Tommy stood, staring down at her, his hands on the white railing. Even from this distance, she saw his uncertainty. Unable to bear staring at the man she both loved to the depths of her soul and now hated with a warrior’s passion, she rushed inside the clubhouse and into the ladies’ changing room. She wanted to bawl like a baby, but wouldn’t give him that satisfaction.

  A box of Kleenex was on the shelf before the long mirror. She beelined to it. Pulling out three, she carefully dabbed at the tears to keep her mascara from running. Hearing chatter headed into the women’s lounge, she rushed toward the changing rooms; she couldn’t face anyone now.

  She scooted into the last stall and closed the louvered door as the voices drew near. Sitting on the bench, she leaned her head against the wall, trying to find some peace. Maybe they wouldn’t linger.

  “Well, I feel sorry for her,” the soft voice of Melody Hayden said.

  Another laughed—Patti-Sue Moran. “I don’t. She’s such a spaz. For the past two years she’s dogged Tommy Grant. Like he’d ever want her.”

  “She’s cute,” Melody defended.

  “I’m cute, too,”Patti-Sue sneered.

  A third voice, Maddy Paddington added, “She’s got a set of knockers. Guys
stand to attention when she goes by.”

  “They’re too big. More than a handful is too much.” Patti moved to stand before the mirror to apply lipstick; through the louvered slats, Laura spied her preening.

  “I heard it was more than a mouthful. Either way, she’s got ’em.” Maddy snorted.

  Patti leaned forward and pressed her lips together to set her lipstick. “It won’t do her any good. Joy Dinwiddie’s putting out. She’ll get knocked up to land Tommy. Watch. It’s sad to see poor Laura follow him like some lovesick puppy. Tommy’s always complaining to my brother how you open the door and she falls into his home.”

  Melody pushed the other girls toward the door. “Come on, the guys have waited long enough.”

  Laura hadn’t realized she was crying until a tear hit the back of her hand. Forcing herself to her feet, she walked to the mirror and frowned at her coon eyes. Getting soap from the sink dispenser, she carefully washed the black from under her lower lashes and repaired her face.

  The door swung open and Melody rushed back in. She jerked upright, seeing Laura before the mirror. “Ooooops . . . you heard.”

  Laura summoned her strength and turned to face Melody. “It’s always good to know what people really think about you. I prefer honesty to two-faced pretenses.”

  Melody looked ashen. “Patti is such a snot sometimes. She’s jealous of you. We all are. You’re so pretty. You just never tried to fit in.”

  “I’d want to fit in with a bunch of vicious backstabbers?” Laura started to push past her, only Melody caught her arm. “Let go,” she snapped.

  “Look, I’m sorry,” Melody apologized.

  “Thanks, but no thanks.”

  Laura shoved by Melody and out the door. She went straight up the stairs to the roof to look for Junior, where she’d last seen him, hoping he’d take her home; her dad worked second shift at the Corning plant in Danville, and her mom didn’t have a car to come get her. It was nearly ten miles or she’d walk all the way home. In despair, she glanced down at her pale satin shoes not made for walking on pavement.