by Beth Ciotta
Unfortunately, her mother had worried incessantly that, given Afia’s luck, one of the rides would go haywire and they’d end up the victims of some horrific accident. Bad enough that she was being exposed to carnies, gypsies, and midway food. Eventually, her dad had buckled under the weighty lectures, and thereafter, when he’d managed to tear himself away from his courtroom, had taken his young daughter to the latest G-rated movie. It occurred to Afia that were the film censors to rate her life, misfortune and all, she’d barely register PG. The realization proved oddly depressing.
She swirled her tongue around the frozen custard lapping up taboo calories. “Why aren’t you having dessert?” she asked Jake in between licks.
“My dessert’s in my shirt pocket, but since the wind would blow the smoke in your face, I’ll have it later.”
Why have the lung-blackening cigarette at all, she wanted to ask, but knew he’d take exception. “That’s very thoughtful of you.”
His dimple flared. “I’m a thoughtful kind of guy.”
He was joking with her again. At least she thought he was joking. Her head ached, and she wasn’t sure if it was from eating the frozen custard too fast or from trying to get a fix on Jake. She’d never been around a man like him. So blunt. So … what would Rudy call him? Alpha-male. And yet underneath that gruff exterior lurked a sensitive soul. She’d seen it in his eyes when he’d dealt with his weepy client, and when he’d asked about Joni’s welfare. And even though she clearly wasn’t qualified to be a private investigator’s assistant, he’d given her the job she so desperately wanted. Was that it? Had he seen the desperation in her eyes? Did the intimidating Mr. Leeds have a weakness for damsels in distress? Her back went up at the notion that he’d hired her because he felt sorry for her. The last thing she needed was yet another man coming to her rescue.
“Your life is out of control because you have no control in your life.”
Suddenly all she wanted was to get back to the office.
“You can answer the phone, right? Make coffee?”
Thinking back, Jake’s comments had been as insulting as Harmon’s incredulous expression when she’d announced her intention to get a job. As if she were a fluff-brained idiot. Although that’s exactly what the manager of the casino boutique had called her when she’d been unable to master the computerized cash register. Not that the buttoned-up, pinch-lipped woman had taken the time to properly train her. One quick overview and she was expected to understand. Questions annoyed the standoffish manager, and when Afia unintentionally ticked off a casino high-roller by asking for identification before accepting a check, she’d been terminated on the spot. She’d taken the humiliation in stride, much like her heated dismissal from the hectic themed restaurant.
She hadn’t deserved to lose either job. She certainly hadn’t earned the insults. Rudy was right. She should have spoken up in her defense because obviously her indignation had been festering. Just now her stomach churned like an active volcano, and she didn’t think it was because of the mass quantities of junk food. Although that was a possibility.
“It was very kind of you to buy me lunch,” she said, her voice as cool as her devoured custard, “but you mentioned you had someplace to be, and I’d hate to keep you from work.” She pulled a moist towelette from her purse, squared her shoulders, and wiped her sticky hands.
“I’m exactly where I need to be, and believe it or not, I am working.”
His expression was unreadable and because of those darned sunglasses, she couldn’t tell if he was looking at her, the Carnevale Casino, or the flock of seagulls attacking an abandoned bag of popcorn. “You don’t look like you’re working.” He looked like any one of the surrounding tourists, relaxed and enjoying a humid-free day on the boardwalk.
The corners of his mouth curled into an arrogant grin. “That’s because I’m good.”
I’ll bet. Her cheeks burned. She scrubbed her hands harder as if it would cleanse her dirty thoughts. Darn him for being so charismatic. Darn her for being susceptible. As Rudy had pointed out, this wasn’t like her at all. Lusting after a straight, under-forty, blue-collar male. Lust. The word was almost as foreign to her as poor. Yes, she wanted to break old patterns, but not with a married man. Not with her boss. Her anxiety simmered toward boil. “So what exactly are you doing?”
“Observing Anthony Rivelli.”
“Who’s Anthony Rivelli?”
“The man I’m observing.”
She swallowed an exasperated huff. “Do I look like a fluff-brained idiot?”
He angled his chin at that, and she cursed herself for broadcasting her insecurity. “He’s over your right shoulder,” he said. “Leaning against the boardwalk railing, having a smoke with a couple of co-workers.”
She started to turn, but Jake lazed forward and grasped her chin. Her skin tingled as he brushed his thumb over her lower lip. Propriety dictated she jerk back, but her brain short-circuited. “What are you doing?”
“Wiping custard from the corner of your mouth, and,” he leaned closer, lowering his voice to a husky drawl that lulled her into a glassy-eyed stupor, “stopping us from getting burned.”
Burned? She was already singed to the bone. His touch worked like tinder to a starving fire. His masculine scent swirled around her, spicy and wildly erotic. Salsa music pulsed from a nearby pavilion, igniting a vivid image of her and Jake engaged in the horizontal Lambada. Oh, God.
“If you turn around, he might catch you staring. I don’t want Rivelli to know he’s being watched. Hence the term covert surveillance.”
Her mouth formed an O, but nothing came out.
“So far, if he’s glanced this way, all he’s seen are two lovers on holiday.” He brushed her lips with a cashmere-soft kiss then plucked the soiled towelette from her hand and rose to toss it in the nearby trashcan.
Afia blinked at him from behind her sunglasses, while pressing her fingertips to her smoldering lips. He’d barely skimmed her flesh, and yet he’d left a trail of fire. Her heart pounded as a fierce yearning spiked from her brain to her nether region. Lust was potent and completely unnerving. She didn’t know whether to giggle, sigh, or dive into the chilly ocean. She dropped her hands into her lap and fingered her wishbone charm. This one, she could hear her dad saying,means wishes come true. Be careful what you wish for, Peanut.
She wished that Jake’s lips had lingered a little longer. She wished that he was single and that fleeting kiss had been an actual come on. But then she surveyed his casual attire, her casual attire, and the two souvenir plastic shopping bags resting near her feet. She conjured the image of them sitting side-by-side, gorging on junk food, and basking in the sun—two lovers on holiday—and she knew the truth.
He was playing a part. The kiss, if one could call it an actual kiss, hadn’t been personal. She should be thrilled, relieved at the very least, since he was quite possibly married, and she was most definitely not an adulteress. But instead, her spirits sank like a stone.
This is crazy, she told herself when he sat back down. You’re the one who wanted to learn the tricks of trade. Get with the program. Stop panting after Jake and start hunting down Glick. “So are you telling me that we’re on a stake-out?” she asked, struggling to feign nonchalance. “Is that why you wanted me to look like Joe Schmo?”
He angled his big body toward her, stretched out his right arm and rested it behind her on the bench. “More like Jane Doe, but yeah.”
“Dress to blend.”
“Bingo.”
She tensed when he stroked the length of her ponytail, idly twirling long strands around his fingers. Was this a test? Was he seeing how far he could push her before she turned skittish? Wondering if she’d prove as inept in the field as she’d been in the office, thereby giving him sufficient grounds to fire her? Needing all the good fortune she could conjure, she squeezed her charms and chanted a string of silent affirmations.
I will keep this job. I will get back my money. I will give as good as I
get.
Keeping her back to Anthony Rivelli, she inched closer to the poker-faced P.I. and toyed with the third button of his shirt. Unlike her stint with the computerized cash register, she knew exactly what she was doing. She’d taken a high school drama class. She could play the enamored girlfriend. “Is Mr. Rivelli connected to the blond woman with the silk chiffon sundress?”
“You’re sure it was silk chiffon? Specifically?”
She nodded. “I have an eye for fabrics and designers. She was also wearing Jimmy Choo shoes, which means she has money. She spends a lot of it fighting off time.”
“Meaning?”
“She’s had work done.”
His lips twitched. “You mean her breasts. I noticed.”
“Figures,” she said, tossing back his earlier sarcasm. Although any red-blooded male would have admired the ultra-perfect 38-Cs. “She spends too much time in the sun, or tanning salon, and then counteracts the negative effects with Botox injections.”
“How can you tell?”
Afia slid her sunglasses to the tip of her nose and then pointed to her forehead and the space between her eyebrows. “No wrinkles. She was frowning, intensely. There should have been wrinkles.”
“Anything else?”
“She’s not a real blond.”
He laughed. “Maybe my sister isn’t a one-of-a-kind after all.”
She scrunched the very brow she’d been pointing at. “Your sister?”
“Joni.”
“Joni McNichols is your sister?”
Jake motioned her to lower her voice. “Who did you think she was?”
“Your wife … or someone.”
His dimple deepened and suddenly she saw the resemblance. “Joni will get a kick out of that one.”
“So is there a wife … or someone?” She couldn’t believe she’d asked such a personal question. She barely knew the man. But he’d kissed her and she’d tingled, and she simply had to know.
“There are a few someones. Just no one in particular.”
In other words he slept around. She’d bet her charm bracelet his life wasn’t rated PG.
He dipped his chin and looked at her over the top of his sunglasses. “You do know that we’re just role-playing here.”
She forced herself not to flinch. “Of course.” She would hold her own with this man if it killed her. Utilizing her rusty acting skills, she affected her best smitten-kitten persona. She skimmed her palm down his shirt, marveling at the hard muscles beneath, trying not to wonder what he looked like naked, which was no doubt amazing, and then rested her hand on his thigh. “So why are we watching Anthony Rivelli?” she asked in a throaty whisper.
He eyed her for a moment and then turned away and plucked a small sack of peanuts from one of the souvenir bags. “Because his fiancée, Angela Brannigan, thinks he’s seeing another woman.”
“Oh.” She wondered if Angela had sufficient grounds, or if she was just unreasonably jealous. Like Dora and Frances who’d bullied Afia off of the charity committee just because their wandering husbands’ eyes had lately strayed over to her. With Randy and Frank gone, those poor paranoid women assumed, though wrongly so, that she’d be on the hunt for wealthy husband number three. Her latest scandal had given them the fuel they needed to jettison Afia out of their social circle thereby banishing temptation. “Does she have any proof?”
“That’s why she hired me.” He popped a peanut in his mouth. “To get proof.”
Afia’s mind skipped to another sneaky snake. She leaned closer, her hand edging farther up Jake’s thigh. “So how hard is it?”
He lapsed into a spasm of choked coughs. “What?”
Afia reached around and whacked him on the back. “How hard is it to track someone?”
“Oh, for Christ’s … why?”
“Just curious.”
“You can stop pounding on me. I’ll live.” He eyed her over the rims of his sunglasses. “I hope.”
Her stomach turned. “Don’t joke like that.” I haven’t done anything wrong.
He chucked the peanut sack into the souvenir bag. “Who do you want to track?”
“No one.”
“Leave the snooping to the professionals, Afia.
“Maybe I’d like to become a professional.”
“You don’t have what it takes. Ah, shit.” He tugged at the brim of his cap. “Here comes Rivelli.”
“You haven’t worked a day in your life.”
“You’re a fluff-brained idiot.”
Afia’s breath quickened as a surge of anger spiked her heart rate. Harness your feelings, swallow the hurt. Outbursts, according to her mother, were undignified. And by nature Afia abhorred confrontation.
“You don’t have what it takes.”
Her heart thundered in her ears. How did he know what she was capable of? She didn’t even know herself until she unconsciously positioned herself in his lap, shielding him from Rivelli’s view.
Spurred on by frustration and the driving, salsa beat, she shed her smitten-kitten routine and adopted the role of the brazen vixen. She wrapped her arms around Jake’s neck and devoured that sinfully, sexy mouth. She nipped and suckled his lower lip, teasing the seam of his mouth with her tongue. He groaned, or maybe it was an exasperated grunt. She couldn’t tell. She didn’t care. When he opened his mouth and took possession of her tongue, an extravaganza of fireworks exploded behind her closed lids.
He tasted of spicy mustard, smoke, and sin.
She wanted to drown in his decadence. This kiss sizzled. This kiss was rated R.
It was all she could do not to totally combust when he cupped her bottom and pulled her snug against his crotch. This morning she’d thought him immune to her physical blessings. Oh, no. He absolutely, without a doubt, wanted her. He wanted her in a huge way, and considering the torture he’d put her through thus far, it did wonders for her fragile self-esteem.
“Get a room,” a passing woman grumbled, piercing a hole in Afia’s euphoric bubble.
Oh, God. She’d made a spectacle of herself. Drawn attention when she’d meant to divert it. She’d lost control. Cheeks burning, she placed her palms on Jake’s chest and eased back. Don’t panic. “Is Rivelli gone?” A business-related question. Good. Showed she could focus. Too bad her voice cracked.
Jake peeked around her shoulder. It took him a full second to respond, and when he did his own voice sounded scratchy. “Yeah.”
Was it possible that he’d witnessed fireworks as well? Nerves jangling, she hooked a finger over his sunglasses and slid them down his nose until their eyes locked.
His smoldering gaze ignited a fire that burned a path to her inner thighs.
Her mouth went dry. A trickle of sweat rolled down between her breasts.
Sizzle.
She had two choices: Break the mood or pick up where they’d left off. Mortified that she was actually contemplating an encore, she wiggled against his erection and faked a coy grin. “You do know that we’re just role-playing here.”
A muscle jumped in his cheek, and she instantly regretted her taunt. She was out of her league. He was going to chew her up and spit her out. Fire her for insubordination or for endangering his covert surveillance.
Jaw clenched, he rose, set her gently aside and then took a cautious step back as though she were a ticking bomb. Her skin prickled with dread as he wiped his palms down the legs of his jeans and then picked up the shopping bags. “Let’s get back to the office and discuss your duties,” he said, while nudging her toward the parking garage. “Seems there’s more to you than meets the eye, Jinx.”
Chapter Seven
A basic background check told Jake plenty and zip about Anthony Rivelli. Thirty-seven and never been married. No record of being a sexual predator or a deadbeat dad. No civil suits filed. No criminal record. Never been charged for DWI, although he’d been issued a couple of speeding tickets. Not surprising since he drove a BMW Z4. Nice.
Rivelli owned a condominium in Ventnor, t
he shore town bordering Atlantic City, and a house in Cherry Hill, a ritzy community midway between Atlantic City and Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. He was a college graduate who’d worked his way up from slot host to the vice president of a major casino in less than fifteen years. Anthony Rivelli was driven, rich, and squeaky clean.
At least on the surface.
Jake shut down his computer and wondered what he’d find when he dug deeper. Generally he found dirt. People, in general, were a major disappointment. Six years with the Atlantic City Police Department had exposed him to the dregs of humanity. Near the top of his list were men who physically or emotionally abused women and children, and that included fathers who failed to pay child support. Intimidating deadbeat dads didn’t pay well but it was damned satisfying. As far as he was concerned abandoning a child—emotionally or financially—was a top-ten sin. Children were innocents, and there weren’t a helluva lot of innocents in this world. Almost everyone had a skeleton in their closet.
Afia St. John had three. Not in her closet, but six feet under.
That woman was a direct connection to the great beyond, and all he could think about was tapping into her. He’d caught a glimpse of heaven when she’d blindsided him with that mind-warping kiss. A divine warning? A smart man would have issued her walking papers. His intelligence wasn’t in question, but neither was his integrity. He was a man of his word, and he’d promised to look after Afia for two weeks.
Day one and he’d already breached Harmon’s trust.
What had he been thinking when he’d stolen that initial kiss? Hell, it wasn’t even a kiss, just a brush of the lips, and he’d been thinking about how sexy she’d looked eating that frozen custard. He’d been thinking about her sweet, velvety tongue, imagining all sorts of wicked scenarios. He’d been thinking about how cute she looked in that cheap baseball cap and silently admiring her observational skills.
He’d been struck stupid.
He’d scrambled to cover his bone-headed blunder, but then she’d engaged in her own role-playing, giving him a throbbing hard-on and a headache to match. One moment he had her pegged as an inept submissive, the next she was salvaging a surveillance op by taking creative initiative. She was a damned enigma, and every fiber of his body ached to investigate each enticing angle.