by Beth Ciotta
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Praise for Jinxed
“Fast-paced, sizzlingly sexy fun!”
—USA Today best selling author Karyn Monk
“Jinxed is an enjoyable private investigative romance that has the feel of the 1930s Hepburn-grant madcap comedies. The story line is fun to follow as Jake does not know whether he needs to lock up or kiss Afia. Fans of screwball romantic romps will enjoy the love tale of the socialite and the sleuth.”
—Amazon.com #1 Reviewer, Harriet Klausner
10 out of 10!
“Every once in a great while, a writer comes along and really breaks new ground. What makes Jinxed so different from other detective-dame stories is the totally original ‘voice’ of author Beth Ciotta. The whole package works. I found myself laughing out loud and falling in love with Afia and Jake and flat out rooting for them to succeed on their own and as a couple. Can’t wait to read more from this promising new-to-me author.”
—Review by Live2WriteNow at www.reviewcentre.com
DEDICATION:
For Helen Rosburg and Leslie Burbank:two mavericks who spin dreams into
heart-tripping reality.
Published 2004 by Medallion Press, Inc.
The MEDALLION PRESS LOGO
is a registered trademark of Medallion Press, Inc.
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment from this “stripped book.”
Copyright © 2004 by Beth Ciotta
Cover design by James Tampa
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.
Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Typeset in Adobe Garamond Pro
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN: 978-097436394-3
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
First Edition
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS:
My thanks to:
Cynthia Klimback, Julia Templeton, and Mary Stella: cherished friends, amazing critique partners, and persistent warriors. Thank you for your invaluable input and for slaying my personal demons (aka creative insecurities) on a daily basis enabling me to conquer this exciting challenge.
Linnea Sinclair for her overall generosity and insight into the life of a private investigator.
Sebastian Goldstein for his friendship, support, and legal expertise.
Melanie Rice and Duane Leeds: treasured friends and true inspirations. You enrich my world with your humor, heart, and artistic pursuits.
Stephanie Bond, Sandra Chastain, Kathyrn Falk, Heather Graham, and Connie Perry for their friendship, guidance, and never-ending support. I am blessed to have you in my life.
Steve Ciotta, my husband and true-life hero. Thank you for supporting my dream, especially when I’m stressed out over plot points, writer’s block, and deadlines. You are a generous, inspiring soul, and you fill my heart with joy.
Author’s Note
Although this story takes place in Atlantic City, New Jersey (the gaming playground of the east coast), please note that the Carnevale Casino, the Bizby, the Sea Serpent, and the Seaside Charity Committee are purely fictional.
Chapter One
“Declined.”
“Excuse me?” Afia blinked at the quasi-Euro sales associate, a black-rimmed spectacled, chic-suited man who three minutes before had been all smiles and pleasantries.
“Your privileges have been revoked, Ms. St. John.”
The woman standing behind her in line snickered. Afia blushed. Exclusive shops such as Bernard’s treated their patrons like royalty. So why did she suddenly feel like the rabble? “There must be some mistake.”
The associate retained a deadpan expression. “Perhaps you’d like to try another card.”
Her business manger, Henry Glick (a financial wizard according to her mother), had asked her to make all of her purchases on one specific credit card until further notice. Something to do with interest rates and consolidation. So seven months ago she’d handed over the bulk of her cards to Mr. Glick, except for the American Express that she’d tucked away for emergencies. As her dignity was at stake just now, she considered this a genuine crisis. Fishing her Gucci wallet out of her matching handbag, Afia handed the sales associate her backup card. He slid her platinum plastic through the gizmo next to the cash register, starting the process all over again, leaving her to ponder the mystery of her “declined” Visa. Obviously, the card was defective. As soon as she got home she’d call Mr. Glick and have him order her a replacement.
The clerk glanced up, with one haughty eyebrow raised, and a trace of a smirk playing at his glossed lips.
Afia’s stomach clenched. Stop looking at me like that. I haven’t done anything wrong. Funny how many times she’d wanted to scream that sentiment in her cursed life. But as always she kept her feelings inside. Calm. Dignified.
The associate sidled over to the phone and placed a call.
Afia tucked silky strands of poker-straight hair behind her diamond-studded ears and willed her pulse steady. I haven’t done anything wrong.
Casting her a sidelong glance, the associate mumbled a cryptic “uh-huh” and “I see,” and then hung up. He returned and passed Afia her American Express. “Declined.”
Bernard’s four other patrons—plump-lipped, tight-skinned women who looked as though they frequented the same plastic surgeon—conversed in hushed tones. Afia hated being the center of gossip. Mortified, she leaned over the counter and crooked a finger at—she glanced at his nametag—“Douglas. There must be something wrong with your credit card device.”
“Our Zon is functioning properly. I’m afraid it’s your credit that’s in question. Perhaps you’d like to write a check.”
“I don’t have my checkbook.” Mr. Glick oversaw her bank account and paid her bills. She’d been relying on cash and her Visa for months. She’d yet to have a problem. Until now. “Please try again.” Panic fluttered in her chest as she re-offered Douglas her Glick-approved Visa. Those strapless, wedge-heeled Chanels sat on the counter waiting to be bagged. The perfect mates to the silk shantung dress she’d just purchased at Saks.
Two minutes later, Douglas re-shelved the wedge-heeled Chanels. On the verge of hyperventilating, Afia fled Bernard’s. The shoe fiasco had dashed the last of her tremulous composure as she navigated the bustling city sidewalk. She’d survived two high profile weddings and three funerals in seven years. Not to mention the unflattering media surrounding her bizarre personal dramas. Being labeled “The Black Widow” by an unfeeling gossip columnist had been the cruelest blow. Anyone who knew her, knew the insinuation was absurd. Still, her second husband’s sudden death had earned her a fair share of suspicious double takes. Her small circle of f
riends had dwindled to one. She’d managed to cope and found shopping a temporary cure-all for her ever-increasing bouts of depression. But surely, surely she hadn’t shopped herself into the poorhouse. Each of her husbands had left her a fortune.
Her mind racing with one horrible possibility, she quickened her spike-heeled steps and avoided walking under a workman’s ladder only to step on a crack in the pavement. Out of habit she clutched her left wrist and stroked the charm bracelet her dad had given her to counteract ill luck. That’s when she felt it. The gap. She quickly fingered the charms, ticking them off in her mind—horseshoe, wishbone, four-leaf clover—stumbling twice in her haste to make it to the car. The third time she went down. Face down on the crowded sidewalks of Fifth Avenue.
Rudy came to her rescue. The muscle-bound chauffeur whisked her up and carried her to his double-parked limousine. “Animal,” he said of a snickering passerby and then opened the door and helped her into the back seat.
“I’m all right,” she said.
“You’re crying,” Rudy said. “And you’ve got a run in your hose.”
Afia glanced at her left shin and cried harder. “Darn!”
“I knew this wasn’t a good idea. I should’ve taken you shopping somewhere cheerful and sunny. Like Miami.” Rudy slammed her door, took his place behind the wheel, and revved the engine. “What happened in there?”
“They declined me.”
“What?”
“Never mind.” Sniffle. “I just want to go home.” Again, she glanced at her charms. Twelve. She counted only twelve. There were supposed to be thirteen, unlucky thirteen acting as reversed bad luck. She was missing her gold moneybag marked with the dollar sign. The charm that represented “wealth.” She could have lost it in any one of several stores. Or on the street. Down a grate, in the gutter. Gone, her rational mind whispered. It was the only thing that kept her from going back and searching every square inch of Manhattan. This bracelet had been a gift from her dad, her champion, the good-humored buffer between her and her superstitious mother. Losing a charm was like losing a piece of her hero. It also smacked of a bad omen. Hands trembling, she pushed aside a day’s worth of shopping bags and searched her leather satchel for tissues and her cellular.
She punched in her business manager’s number while Rudy eased his way into the bumper-to-bumper traffic. “Be home, Mr. Glick. Please be home.”
Rrrring. Rrrring. “I’m sorry. The number you have dialed has been disconnected. Please—”
She hung up and speed dialed his cell number.
Rrrring. Rrrring. “I’m sorry. The number you have dialed—”
“Henry, how could you!” She strangled the phone wishing it were Henry Glick’s skinny, double-crossing neck, and then dropped the cell in her lap. Mental note: Strike Glick off of my Christmas list! Stroking her wounded bracelet, she glanced out the tinted side window, tears blurring her vision and distorting her view of Manhattan. In her hypersensitive state, the skyscrapers tilted, threatening to crumble and crush her. The relentless traffic melded, threatening to run her over. She missed her Dad. Randy, and Frank. The men in her life who made everything all right. She knew that made her unfashionably dependent. Yet how did one fight one’s nature? She’d been trying to cope, struggling to maintain proper grace. Losing that lucky charm, a charm she’d had since she was thirteen years old, had been the final straw. “I can’t breathe,” she squeaked, suddenly and horribly overwhelmed.
Rudy blared the limo’s horn, jerking the wheel left as a taxi veered too close. “Idiot.”
Afia sobbed into a handful of tissues.
“Not you, honey. The cabbie.” He edged over into the far lane behind an exhaust-belching bus. “What’s going on, Afia?”
She blew her nose and then glanced up, meeting Rudy’s concerned blue gaze in the rearview mirror. Dear, sweet Rudy. Her chauffeur. Her best friend. Her only link to sanity this past emotionally charged year. “I’m not sure.”
“Just remember, honey, everything happens for a reason. No matter how bad it seems, it could always be worse.”
Rudy had been spouting new-age assurances for three weeks now. Ever since he’d discovered the self-help section of Amazon.com. She wished he’d stop. The more he tried to lift her spirits, the more she drifted toward despair. Self-help suggested helping one’s self. Relying on one’s own judgment. Trusting one’s instincts. As her mother was fond of pointing out to Afia, following her instincts generally led her to disaster. Sick to her stomach, she picked up the phone and dialed her no-nonsense godfather.
He answered on the third ring. “Hello?”
“Harmon?”
“Afia? I’m in the middle of a golf game, Peanut. What is it?”
“Oh, Harmon.” She hiccupped twice before regaining control. “My credit cards. They … they …”
“What?”
“Mr. Glick. He … he …”
“What? What did Henry do? Where are you?”
“Manhattan. Oh, Harmon they … they …”
“They who? They what? Afia stop sobbing and tell me what’s going on.”
“They were so cute, the strapless Chanels, and I … I couldn’t buy them. I was …” hiccup, sniffle, “declined.”
Harmon groaned. “Go ahead,” he said to someone else. “I’ll meet you at the clubhouse. Afia.”
“What?”
“Where are you exactly?”
“In the limo.”
“With Rudy?”
She nodded.
“Peanut, I have the feeling you’re nodding. That doesn’t help.”
“Rudy’s driving,” she croaked.
“Put him on.”
She leaned forward, handed the phone to Rudy, and then rooted through her bag for more tissues.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Reece.” The metro bus stopped short. Rudy jammed on his brakes.
Afia flew forward, landing on the carpeted floor on all fours. “Darn!”
Rudy glanced over his big shoulder. “Are you hurt?”
She climbed back up into her seat and inspected her right knee. “Another run.”
He sighed and then focused back on the traffic. Putting the phone back to his ear, he answered, “She’s fine.” Again he glanced over his shoulder. “Mr. Reece said buckle up.”
She nodded and waved him off, contemplating her stockings. Ruined. Much like her life.
“To get home?” Rudy shrugged. “Two to three hours. I’m gridlocked. Yes, sir. As soon as possible.”
He passed the phone back to Afia. “Harmon?” She kicked off her three-hundred-dollar Prada pumps and peeled off her pricey sheer to waist hosiery. “Tell me I’m imagining the worst.”
“I have to make some calls. Did Rudy stock the mini-fridge?”
She pried open the door with her big toe. “Laurent Perrier ’76.”
“Drink up, Peanut. Kick back and don’t worry. Rudy will have you home in no time. I’ll meet you there.”
“You’re suggesting I tie one on at two in the afternoon, Harmon. That doesn’t coincide with don’t worry.”
“Then don’t think about it.” Chirp.
Chirp. She tossed the phone into her bag, cracked open the Laurent Perrier, and proceeded not to think about it.
For three hours and twenty-five minutes.
By the time they reached South Jersey, she was feeling no pain.
Rudy pulled into the circular drive of her second husband’s summer home. Odd, Frank had been gone for almost a year, and she still thought of the sprawling three-story stucco as his home. She’d never warmed to the ultra-modern design. In recent months she’d filled the stark, spacious rooms with nineteenth-century art and antique furniture. Anything old to offset the cold contemporary feel.
But for all the clutter the house remained hollow and lonely.
Like her.
She glared through the limo’s window at the offending architectural monstrosity, tensing when she saw Harmon waiting on the doorstep.
Rudy opened the ca
r door. Refusing his help, she climbed out with four shopping bags looped over her toned, creamy arms, and, on shaky legs, wove her way to the polo-shirted lawyer’s side. “Give it to me straight, Harmie. I can take it.” She’d spent the last few hours bolstering herself with vintage champagne and Rudy’s guru advice. The more she drank, the more he sounded like the Dalai Lama. Who wouldn’t take heart under the Dalai Lama’s guidance? Everything happens for a reason. No matter how bad it seems, it could always be worse. “How much did Glick embezzle?”
Grim-faced, Harmon pulled her into his arms and whispered in her ear.
Rudy was wrong. It couldn’t be worse.
“I’ll fix this, Peanut.”
Afia dropped her bags and clutched her chest, her alcohol-induced bravado obliterated. “I’m broke.”
“Financially challenged,” Harmon countered. “A temporary inconvenience. Wait until your mother hears about this. Henry better pray that it’s me who tracks him down.”
“Mother’s somewhere in Tahiti,” she said, half dazed. “On her honeymoon. She left specific instructions not to be disturbed.” Weary of widowhood, Giselle had married Bartholomew Tate, a pompous bonbon baron who seemed intent on widening the already canyon-sized gap between mother and daughter. Could Harmon fix that, too?
“She’d want to know.”
“She’s already put out with me. Absolutely not.”
“All right then. You’ll stay with Viv and me while we figure this out.”
“Thank you, but no.” She turned her back on both men. Stepping onto the manicured lawn, she circled the rose bed in a liquor-fogged daze. “I’m poor.” She’d been born into money. Married money. Now she couldn’t afford a bubble bath let alone a day at the spa.
“You’re staying with me,” Harmon insisted.
She was tempted. Harmon would take care of her. Somehow, some way, he’d make everything all right. Rudy’s self-help preaching rang in her ears. The sooner you stop looking to others to fix your problems, the sooner your problems will disappear. “I couldn’t impose,” she heard herself saying.