Jinxed

by Beth Ciotta

  Italian.

  She refused to lose him to another woman. Of course, when confronted he’d pleaded innocent. He’d explained the lipstick, a wholly reasonable explanation, and she would have believed him if not for the sliver of doubt stabbing at her ulcerated stomach. Suddenly, she found herself second-guessing everything she’d taken in stride during their whirlwind courtship, such as his habit of spending several nights a week at his condo down at the shore, rather than commuting to his home in Cherry Hill. Considering he put in more than seventy hours a week as the vice president of the newly erected Carnevale Casino, that annoying penchant hadn’t seemed suspicious. Until now.

  Needing answers and not wanting to risk discovery by hiring a detective anywhere in the vicinity of her hometown, she’d thumbed through the yellow pages of an Atlantic City directory and decided on Leeds Investigations. Since the listing told her shit about the agency’s qualifications, she’d opted for a personal visit. Jake Leeds, she’d ascertained in one minute flat, was her man— intelligent, confident, and an obvious sucker for a female in distress. If Anthony was seeing another woman, Leeds would nail the cheating bastard.

  What then?

  She couldn’t think about what then just now. It made her want to puke.

  She popped another antacid and sailed through the EZ-Pass lane of the tollbooth, craving a double martini and a scalding hot bath. She wanted to wash away the sleaze of Atlantic City and that P.I.’s crummy office. She wanted to forget the snotty appraisal of his young, obnoxiously pretty assistant, and the fact that she was fast nearing forty. She wanted to put an end to Tony’s affair, before her dad found out and put an end to Tony.

  Utilizing Afia as a field assistant was probably a mistake, but preferable to the alternative. Left to her own devices, she’d organize his office into mayhem. He had a system. Bills, receipts, expense reports, arranged in an order that made sense to him. At least they used to be arranged. They currently littered his hardwood floor. First his files, then his receipts. Either her mother was right and she was jinxed, or she was your run-of-the-mill klutz.

  He feared the former, as there was nothing run-of-the-mill about Afia St. John. When he’d escorted Ms. Brannigan from his office, he’d expected to find Ms. Socialite filing her nails or skimming a fashion magazine, not diligently sorting folders.

  The shiny red plastic tote filled with sponges, paper towels, latex gloves, and assorted cleansers had whipped him into a tailspin. He’d tried picturing her on her hands and knees, scrubbing floors and toilets. The “hands and knees” part came easily, but scrubbing bubbles and bathrooms led to thoughts of bathtubs and scented soaps. Instead of concentrating on Ms. Brannigan’s parting words as she’d descended the stairs, he’d digressed into a fantasy involving a bubble bath, a bottle of champagne, and an extremely naked Afia.

  “What do you think?”

  I think I need my head examined. “Too tight.”

  “But it’s a medium and I’m a small.”

  “Go for a large.” Preferably something that hangs to your knees. As thin as she was you’d expect a bony ass. No such luck. She had a great ass and a subtle sway that would garner the attention of every man on the famous seaside boardwalk.

  “I won’t have a shape.”

  “Good.”

  Afia looked at him quizzically, as if trying to process a foreign concept. God forbid she not turn heads. Well, to hell with her ego. If she was going to work surveillance, she needed to be invisible. Tall order for a woman who’d probably been the center of attention since birth.

  “You’re concerned people will recognize me, that I’ll draw attention to us.”

  “Something like that.”

  “I understand.”

  “Good.” He tried not to analyze the sad note in her tone. She was depressed because she’d lost her fortune. Bottom line. Three weeks ago she’d shopped in exclusive boutiques, shelling out hundreds of dollars for obscenely overpriced merchandise. Today he’d ushered her into a cheesy souvenir shop. He kept waiting for her to complain. Anything to keep her in the rich bitch category. Anything to make her less attractive. He crossed his arms over his chest and watched as she methodically sorted through a rack of five-dollar T-shirts, passing over lewd cartoon graphics and tacky quotes in favor of small, subtle logos.

  Come on, baby. One catty jab.

  “I didn’t do it, just in case you were wondering.”

  “Do what?”

  “Off my husbands.”

  “Off?” He would’ve laughed if she hadn’t sounded so earnest.

  “Don’t detectives use that term?”

  “Not this detective.”

  She worked her way around the rack, avoiding eye contact. “I’m not a ‘Black Widow.’ ”

  “Nice to know.”

  “Although it is true that I inherited a substantial amount money from both of my husbands.”

  He held silent wondering where she was going with this. Amazing how much information he gathered by keeping his mouth shut.

  “Aren’t you curious?”

  About whether your first husband had an unusually weak heart or if you’re that amazing in bed? Hell, yes. “About?

  “About why someone as wealthy as me would need to work. You do know who I am, don’t you?”

  He found it interesting that she’d lowered her voice to a near whisper. Famous and infamous were two different things, and from her downcast gaze he suspected she considered herself the latter. “I know who you are. That is I’m aware of your tabloid history. And lots of wealthy people work.”

  “Yes, but not as a private investigator’s assistant.” She looked up then. “May I ask how much I’ll be earning?”

  “Four hundred and fifty.”

  “Per week?” She smiled, no doubt planning a weekend shopping spree. But then her appealing mouth slacked into a worried frown. “Considering the job, that seems high.”

  Damned high. But that’s what Harmon wanted her to have. He ignored her observation and gestured to the rack. “You want to pick up the pace?” According to Ms. Brannigan, her fiancé spent his lunch hour on the boardwalk soaking up the sun. He knew where and when to catch a glimpse of Anthony Rivelli. The latest addition to Atlantic City’s glitzy boardwalk casinos was near, but so was the time.

  “I was bored.”

  “Pardon?”

  “With my life. So I decided to get a job.” Her cheeks flushed as she concentrated back on the shirts.

  She was either too embarrassed to tell him she’d been duped by her accountant, or too proud. He was having a very hard time getting a handle on this woman. Intriguing and irksome at the same time.

  “If you want me to disappear, maybe I should get an extra-large,” she said, changing subjects. “And maybe I should go with blue.” She pulled a sky-blue T-shirt from the crammed circular rack and held it up in front of her. “I look hideous in blue.”

  He disagreed. She’d make gray look good. He lifted a teasing eyebrow. “Yes, but then people will stare and point and say, my God, what was she thinking?”

  She smiled, and his gut twisted, dammit. One second stretched into five, and his palms grew moist. He felt like the high school chess geek gawking at the homecoming queen. Christ. It’s not like he didn’t get enough sex.

  Her smile faltered, and something akin to panic flashed in her baby browns. “I’ll go with a large. Black. Very unassuming.”

  “Good idea.”

  “I’ll just be a moment.”

  He watched her walk toward the dressing room, cute butt and waist-length ponytail swaying, albeit subtly, in a fashion that gave him an instant woody. “About that hair …”

  She stopped in her tracks, the black T-shirt dangling from her right balled fist. “I’m not cutting it,” she said without turning.

  Touchy about her hair, was she? The investigator in him wondered why. He wondered a lot of things about Afia St. John. Then he reminded himself that curiosity killed the cat. Or in her case the men in her
life. He tucked his thumbs in his jeans pockets and glanced at a bin of gambling paraphernalia, resisting the absurd urge to snatch up a lucky seven key chain. “I was thinking about a hat.”

  “Oh.” She turned, the relief in her eyes hiking his interest another notch. “I love hats. I have … had quite a few.” She motioned to the front of the store. “I think I saw a hat rack when we came in.”

  “Remember, Jinx,” he said as she walked past, “we’re not going to the Easter parade.”

  “As if I’d pick a Jackie O pillbox to wear with a 100% cotton T-shirt,” she grumbled.

  He grinned at the bite in her tone. Better a ticked cat than a lost puppy. That underlying sadness, her vulnerability, was a major part of her appeal. Made a man want to take her into his arms and promise to make everything better. Was she always like this? Or was it simply a result of her current dilemma? Widowed, homeless, and broke. Hell, that would be enough to depress the staunchest soul. Except she wasn’t living on the streets. She was living with a friend. And she wasn’t penniless. She had a job. For the next two weeks anyhow. After that … After that mommy would be home from Tahiti and she, or her insanely rich husband, or Harmon, would make everything better.

  Or maybe she’d exert that independent streak Harmon had mentioned and insist on calling her own shots. Maybe he didn’t get a bad vibe on Afia, because she wasn’t really all that bad. Spoiled, but not rotten. She was a puzzle all right. Damn if he didn’t love a good mystery.

  “King? Grisham?”

  “Gawain. Shakti Gawain.” Rudy closed his copy of Creative Visualization, a paperback that was a third of the size of any Stephen King or John Grisham novel he’d ever seen, and set it aside as Harmon Reece took the seat across from him in one of Ventnor’s trendiest restaurants.

  “Never heard of him.”

  “Her,” Rudy corrected, and he wasn’t surprised. Harmon was hardly what he’d call enlightened. Unlike Afia’s wacko mother, who believed in every superstition known to man, Harmon believed in what he could see, smell, hear, and touch. Hard evidence. He’d never dream of meditating or chanting affirmations before entering the courtroom, of visualizing a positive outcome. Men like Harmon achieved their goals through sheer arrogance. He never doubted his actions.

  Rudy almost envied him.

  Harmon signaled a waitress and ordered a scotch on the rocks. He eyed Rudy’s glass of seltzer. “Something stronger?”

  “No, thank you. I have a pick-up scheduled at the airport in one hour.”

  The waitress passed them menus, recited the specials, and then slipped away.

  Harmon loosened his tie. “But you’ll be back in time to drive Afia home. Or rather to your place.”

  Rudy suppressed a smile. Harmon hated not having Afia under his roof, or more to the point, under his watchful eye. Unfortunately, he expected her “friend” to be his eyes and ears. “Plenty of time,” he said, his good humor fading. “But there’s a catch. Your dick ordered her to get rid of the limo.”

  Harmon raised an eyebrow and then turned his attention to the menu’s parchment pages. “So pick her up in your regular car.”

  “That would be my motorcycle.”

  The man frowned, flipped to the next page. “I’ll provide you with a car. Something unobtrusive since I’m assuming that was Jake’s problem. A limousine attracts attention. One of the reasons I wanted him to take charge of Afia. He’ll keep her low-key while this mess blows over.”

  Rudy skimmed the entrees, ignoring the part about Jake “taking charge,” as if Afia needed another person pulling her strings. It’s exactly what she didn’t need. She needed to stand on her own two feet. She needed support not domination. He’d watched her struggle with guilt, loneliness, and confusion in the eleven months since Frank’s death. Mostly due to her mother who’d somehow convinced Afia that she was jinxed and had nothing to offer the world outside of her looks. His gentle friend had no idea who she was or what she was capable of, because she’d spent her entire life morphing into other people’s ideals. Good-hearted to a fault, Afia worried about pleasing everyone except herself. When she’d expressed the desire to wring Henry Glick’s traitorous neck, he’d cheered.

  Deciding on the pan-seared scallops, Rudy abandoned the menu and stroked his goatee. “Do you really think you’ll get her money back, Mr. Reece.”

  “It is my sincere intention.”

  In other words, yes. He waited until the waitress served Harmon his scotch and then returned to another point of concern. “Afia knows I can’t afford a new car. If I suddenly show up with one she’ll ask questions. She’s not as ditzy as you think.”

  Harmon sipped his drink then met his gaze. “Ditzy is not a term I have ever used to describe my goddaughter. She is, however, gullible.”

  “Trusting.” Rudy’s gut clenched. “I don’t feel right about this whole arrangement, Mr. Reece. I can’t betray Afia’s confidence by reporting to you her every thought and move.”

  “I don’t need details. I just want to know that she’s safe.”

  Rudy softened at the genuine concern in the older man’s eyes. “I won’t let anything bad happen to her.”

  “I know. And neither will Jake. I’ll be out of town for the next few days on business. It’ll be easier now that I know Afia’s in good hands. Jake’s got her days. You’ve got her nights. I’m comfortable with that.”

  What if Jake gets one of her nights? he wanted to ask, but wisely bit his tongue. Assuming the man was good-hearted, he’d dance with joy and sing Everything’s Coming Up Roses if Afia got down and dirty with the sexy P.I. As far as he knew she’d never had a one-night-stand. Creative, erotic sex? Might be therapeutic just now. Though Afia was fairly tight-lipped about her bedroom antics, he was fairly certain she’d never experienced anything other than the missionary or a slight variation thereof. He tried picturing Randy or Frank bending her over the kitchen table and shuddered.

  Now Jake … Hell, he could picture emerald-eyes doing a lot of things. Not with him, of course. That tasty morsel registered off his gay-dar. But with Afia … He visualized his friend and the P.I. doing the hetero-nasty and smiled. As for himself … his days of flinging were over. He rested his hand on his book, silently chanting, I am open and ready for a serious, long-term relationship.

  Harmon signaled the waitress that they were ready to order and then eyed Rudy over his drink. “So Afia tells me you have a new roommate. Tell me about him.”

  Chapter Six

  He was trying to kill her. Death by junk food. She’d consumed a jumbo hotdog smothered with mustard and relish because, according to Jake, that was the only way to eat a hotdog, a small bucket of salted French fries, and now he expected her to eat frozen chocolate custard. Afia tugged down the brim of her new baseball cap, pushed her black Gucci sunglasses back up her sweat-beaded nose, and tried not to think about how refreshing, and delicious, that screaming-fat dessert would taste. “I couldn’t possibly.”

  Jake thrust the cone into her hand, his eyes a mystery behind those mirrored aviators. “If you’re worried about the calories, don’t.”

  She smirked. “Easy for you to say. You don’t need to fit into a size three.”

  “Neither do you.”

  She didn’t argue. She wasn’t about to explain her obsession with maintaining a svelte figure, especially not within earshot of the myriads of tourists and casino workers crowding the beachside boardwalk. Not that she had an eating disorder or anything similarly tabloid worthy, but she had been counting calories and pounding the treadmill since she was sixteen. If she so much as gained five pounds, her mother would notice. She’d raise a judgmental eyebrow, saying, “You know I don’t mean to be cruel, Afia, but high-profile men prefer showcase wives. Have you ever seen Donald Trump with a blimp?”

  Except Afia didn’t want Donald Trump or any other high-profile man for that matter. She’d had two, and though she’d felt sincere affection for Randy and Frank, there had been no pulse-pounding passion. No spark. Nex
t time around she wanted fireworks. Unpredictable, heart-stuttering pyrotechnics.

  Jake sat down beside her on the wood-slatted bench, and a roman candle rocketed through her blood stream. The man sizzled with an inner intensity that made the backs of her knees sweat.

  She resisted the urge to fan herself, although she could easily blame her burning cheeks on the noonday sun. Chocolate custard melted and dripped over her knuckles. She had two choices: start licking or toss the cone in the nearest trash receptacle. She glanced sideways at Jake—lounging comfortably against the park bench as if he hadn’t a care in the world—and surreptitiously admired his mouth-watering profile. Square jaw, strong chin, and an interesting nose that looked as if it may have been broken once or twice. But mostly she focused on his full, tempting lips. She imagined kissing that sinfully sexy mouth, and her insides melted along with another ripple of custard.

  She thought about Jake’s mysterious client. Next to that curvy siren, Afia felt as desirable as an anorexic nun. Maybe if she gained a few pounds in the right places, she’d gain the interest of a man like Jake. Not Jake specifically, of course, but someone like him. Someone who sizzled.

  Ignoring her mother’s phantom nagging, she attacked the calorie-infested cone with gusto. Rebellion never tasted so good.

  Behind her, waves crashed against the public beach, sunbathers worshiped the June sun, and children screeched with joy as they splashed and bodysurfed in the vast Atlantic. A southern breeze blew in the tantalizing scents of funnel cakes, corn dogs, and French fries, catapulting Afia back to her childhood. To the cherished times her dad had brought her to the Steel Pier, a historic amusement venue boasting carnival rides, psychics, and forbidden food. A self-confessed adrenaline junkie, Judge Bradley St. John had introduced his young daughter to the thrills of roller coasters and sky wheels—the higher, the faster, the better. In between, they’d played darts, shot air rifles and had pigged out on cotton candy and cheese fries. She’d never felt so alive.